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Book_E-SS3. 

Copyright N° Ml 3-X 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


















> 























































MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


By ELIOT H. ROBINSON 


“SMILES”: A Rose of the Cumberlands . $1.90 

SMILING PASS: Being a Further Account 
of the Career of “Smiles”: A Rose of the 
Cumberlands ..... $1.90 

MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE . . . $1.90 

THE MAID OF MIRABELLE: A Romance 
of Lorraine ..... $1.90 

MAN PROPOSES; or, The Romance of 
John Alden Shaw . . . . $1.90 


GO GET ’EM! The True Adventures of an 
American Aviator of the Lafayette Fly¬ 
ing Corps.$1.50 

By Eliot H. Robinson and Lieutenant 
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WITH OLD GLORY IN BERLIN; or, The 
Story of an American Girl’s Life and 
Trials in Germany and Her Escape from 

the Hun3 ..$2.00 

By Eliot H. Robinson and Josephine 
Therese. 


THE PAGE COMPANY 

53 BEACON STREET, BOSTON 











&KII 


o (Tiro dr»T>i 




m 


MARK GRAY’S 
HERITAGE 


BY 

ELIOT H. ROBINSON 

u 

Author of “ ‘Smiles’: A Rose of the Cumberlands,” 
1 Smiling Pass: Being a Further Account of 
the Career of ‘Smiles,’ ” “The Maid of 
Mirabelle,” “Man Proposes,” etc. 


<( 4 


“lVhat is bred in the bone will never 
come out of the flesh ” 



> y 1 > 


THE PAGE COMPANY 

BOSTON * MDCCCCXXIII 


H 


W 


rnwmmmmmmmmmmmmwmmmm 













































































































































































































Copyright, 1923, by 
The Page Company 


Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 
All rights reserved 


Made in U. S. A. 



PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY 
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A. 


APR 14 ’23 

© ci a 7 0 5117 




I DEDICATE THIS ROMANCE TO 
MY FATHER 

WHO HAS ALWAYS HAD MY 
FILIAL RESPECT IN FULL MEASURE, 
AND WHO—GROWING EVER YOUNGER IN 
SPIRIT, AS I HAVE GROWN OLDER IN 
YEARS—HAS BECOME MY BELOVED 
COMPANION. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I Dwellers in Content: and Two 

Interlopers .i 

II Content Is Awakened . . . . n 

4 » 

III Quick Changes.21 

IV The Bull.32 

V An Unsought Lesson .... 43 

VI Domestic Serio-Comedy .... 59 

VII Reactions.71 

VIII A New Impulse.85 

IX Coincidences.98 

X On The First Day.107 

XI Quaker Meeting.117 

XII The Camp.130 

XIII The Pledge—and the Pitfall . .142 

XIV Temptation.157 

XV Friend Dyer Dexter Is Startled . 170 

XVI The Visitor.182 

XVII Marksmen . ..195 

XVIII The Quarrel.204 

XIX Faith—Comforter.212 

XX Accused.227 

XXI The Tempest.244 













CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXII 

Morning. 

PAGE 

258 

XXIII 

Before the Storm. 

268 

XXIV 

The Breaking-Point. 

279 

XXV 

The Greater Victory .... 

293 

XXVI 

“What Is Bred in the Bone—” . 

301 

XXVII 

“Will Never Come out of the 
Flesh”. 

308 

XXVIII 

Tragedy . 

325 

XXIX 

In the Night. 

334 

XXX 

Judgment . 

35i 

XXXI 

The Last Chapter. 

368 







Mark Gray’s Heritage 


CHAPTER I 

DWELLERS IN CONTENT: AND TWO 
INTERLOPERS 

“Speed er’ up, Bill! Have you gone to sleep, 
or got an idea in your head that we’re takin’ part 
in a funeral procession?” 

The driver of the big car started from his rev¬ 
erie, and laughed apologetically. “Guess I was 
sorter dreamin’—generally do at night, yuh know, 
and it’s so calm and peaceful-like. Ain’t it now, 
Flash ?” 

“Huh! Dead; dead and dark as the devil, I 
calls it.” 

“Oh well, ‘darkest jest a-fore dawn,’ as the 
poet ses. See that little streak, ahead, kinder like a 
rubbed out chalk mark on a blackboard? That’s 
a new day cornin’. I always like tuh see a day 
bein’ borned, somehow. It’s like a new baby: yuh 
can’t help wondering, sorter, what’s goin’ tuh hap¬ 
pen in its short life, can yuh?” 

The other snorted. “Turn over, you’re talkin’ in 


2 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


your sleep. Give ’er the gas, for the love of Mike.” 

There was a mighty sigh from the driver. But 
his hurt reiteration, “Well, it is kinder pretty, 
jest the same,” was lost in the roar of the cut-out 
muffler, and the powerful machine leaped for¬ 
ward with a rush which sent the needle of the 
speedometer up to fifty miles an hour. 

The speaker was right; lovely it was. 

The hem of night’s mantle—blue-black and 
shimmering with star jewels—still rested on the 
horizon hills save for that one spot in the East 
where it had been lifted a little, and the light of 
dawning day appeared. Everywhere else the soft 
darkness reigned, challenged only by the moving 
sheaf of light projected forward by the car’s blaz¬ 
ing headlights. 

The two men relapsed into silence. They were 
merely vague forms, now, but day would show 
them to be as totally unlike as was possible, and 
both had already disclosed something of their con¬ 
trasting natures. From the remarks of the one 
of massive bulk, who was now clutching the steer¬ 
ing wheel with hands half again as large as those of 
ordinary mortals, it is safe to assume that, had he 
been able to know that a few miles further on, he 
was—in all innocence—soon to sow the seeds of 
trouble, he would incontinently have changed his 
homeward course. 

But prescience was not in his power—nor his 
vocabulary. And Dame Fortune who directed his 



DWELLERS IN CONTENT 3 


doings, as all of ours, is a capricious jade who likes 
nothing better than to have her little joke at man¬ 
kind’s expense, making playthings of the most seem¬ 
ingly unromantic material and selecting the most 
unlikely spots as her stage. So, through the wan¬ 
ing night, the big car swept on, over the summit 
and down the slope of hill after hill which de¬ 
scended like rough-hewn steps into a valley, now 
asleep and smiling. It was a valley dotted with 
peaceful farms in the midst of blossoming or¬ 
chards and springtime gardens; and in the heart of 
it lay . . . Content. 

Content—the wish had been father to the 
thought with those who named the little village— 
was also fast asleep, like a gentle gray dove nest¬ 
ing in a green hollow. Its dwellers were blissfully 
unconscious of the fact that the forerunner of mad 
adventure was even now bearing swiftly down upon 
it, and were perchance dreaming that their security 
was complete—that they were as safely shut off 
from the bustling, wicked world without as though 
their encircling hills had been impassable mountains. 
Such was, indeed, the normal condition there. 
“Stone walls do not a prison make” sang Lovelace; 
and, conversely, mankind can to a considerable de¬ 
gree succeed in enclosing itself within invisible 
walls, if it will. The dwellers in Content had so 
willed, for generations. For they were of the 
Society of Friends—at heart just such men and 
women as their Quaker forebears had been, nearly 




4 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


two centuries before, when they had migrated over 
those very eastern hills to seek and find peace from 
persecution in that valley where milk and honey 
flowed. 

In minor ways, of course, change had crept in: 
external change, exemplified by the time-blackened 
smithy, for instance. For the shop where Friend 
John Gray—a man of peace despite his herculean 
proportions—labored, with joy in his task, six days 
each week, now bore a sign announcing that auto¬ 
mobiles might be repaired there. Above still swung 
the ancient board, from which wind and weather 
had all but erased the painted legend “Horse Shoe¬ 
ing.” And now a modern red sentinel, with its plac¬ 
ard setting forth the fact that gasoline might there 
be purchased for thirty cents the gallon, stood close 
beside the hand-hewn trough within which the water 
still bubbled and streamed just as it had for fifty 
yester-years when the red-hot tires for Quaker bug¬ 
gies were plunged in it to be shrunk into place. Fi¬ 
nally, just inside the open-faced shed itself, hung a 
sign enjoining strangers from smoking. No such 
prohibition was needed by the men and boys of Con¬ 
tent ! 

Yet even this peaceful place, willing itself to be 
apart from the naughty world, could not keep ever 
inviolate the invisible walls which it had reared. 
A quarter of a century previous its tranquillity had 
been rudely ruptured for a time, when an earlier 
emissary of Dame Fortune had ridden into it over 



DWELLERS IN CONTENT 


5 


those same hilltops—though not in a racing motor 
car, be it said. But that’s another story. 

Moreover, the seed of evil which is planted in the 
heart of every man occasionally sprang up within the 
village itself, and then the maturing weed had to 
be sternly plucked out, in accordance with the New 
Testament injunction, “If thy right hand offend 
thee cut it off and cast it from thee.” Oh, they 
lived literally by The Book, these dwellers in Con¬ 
tent. 

And even at this moment, when trouble in tangible 
form was speeding towards the sleeping villages from 
the world without, John Gray, the gentle giant, was 
lying upon his hard bed, wide-awake. He was a 
prey to harpies of the mind, bred of worry. For it 
was whispered that evil’s weed was growing up 
within his own household! 

Perhaps it was true. Yet if a stranger could 
then have seen the cause of the report—John Gray’s 
stalwart heir—as he lay asleep as peacefully as a 
baby in the bare adjoining bedroom, he would have 
found it hard to credit him with being a cause for 
actual consternation among his neighbors. As he 
lay there, his powerful young body scarcely cov¬ 
ered by his plain nightshirt and a sheet, there would 
have seemed to an unprejudiced observer much to 
admire in him, and little to cause him to be written 
down a trouble-maker. Mark Gray’s countenance 
was far too frank, wholesome, and honest-appearing 
for that! Still, had the visitor known human na- 



6 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


ture and Quaker nature as well, he might perhaps 
have read the answer there, after all. For even in 
repose, and with his ever-smiling blue eyes closed, 
Mark’s face held a hint of unbounding energy and 
vital force. His broad, pleasant mouth already had 
tiny laughter lines engraved at either corner; his 
firm chin displayed a noticeable cleft; and his thick 
chestnut hair, now tousled with slumber, had a 
rebellious wave which would never wholly disappear 
in spite of frequent and painstaking plasterings with 
a wet brush. It was a face which clearly betokened 
a frank and honorable nature, but likewise a mis¬ 
chievous spirit within; and mischief and quaker 
ethics mix like oil and water. 

To be sure, few in Content called Mark Gray 
actually bad, since nearly every one liked him too 
well for his own sunny self; but many of the older 
generation, who had suffered from his boyhood 
pranks, followed the lead of the irascible Dyer Dex¬ 
ter and shook their heads whenever his name was 
mentioned. Nobody thinks of calling a stone bad, 
but every one knows that it can break a window and 
sadly ruffle the surface of the pool into which it falls, 
and Mark had already many times disturbed the 
habitual placidity of Content, and the ripples caused 
by his frequent falls had spread and spread. The 
disinterested onlooker would have called them 
merely ripples, at least, and been mildly amused by 
the commotion; but to four of the peaceful dwellers 
in that valley they were real waves, which had 



DWELLERS IN CONTENT 7 

already set their life-crafts to rocking, and which 
threatened to shipwreck one of them. 

Of the four John Gray was one, needless to say. 
Upon his bowed, but powerful shoulders the lash 
of public opinion fell heavily every time that Mark, 
in his exuberance of youthful spirits, outraged the 
sensibilities of the small community. Yet another 
was Sister Patience, who, as housekeeper for the 
motherless Gray homestead, had for many years 
been daily called upon to play the role coincident 
with her name, where Mark was concerned. She 
loved him like a mother even when she cried, “Mark, 
Mark, if thou cont'inuest to do so-and-so thou 
wilt shortly bring my white hair in sorrow to the 
grave!” 

The third was a woman, likewise. But her hair, 
instead of being white like that of Sister Patience, 
was as smooth, brown, and sheenful as the wing of 
a thrush, and her young cheeks as smooth and deli¬ 
cately tinted as the petals of one of the spring roses 
now blooming in her garden. Nor had she any 
need of steel-bowed spectacles, like Patience’s, to 
improve the vision of her eyes which could, and 
sometimes did, change from rich, deep brown to 
sparkling black. 

“Sister Faith Franklyn hath sore need of a father 
—or a husband,” Friend Dyer Dexter had once been 
heard to remark. He was a widower and his farm 
adjoined the smiling acres where the orphaned girl 
was struggling to support her little family. “I fear 




8 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


that she is not sufficiently unmindful of the worldly 
fact that she hath the prettiest face and . . . and 
. . . the prettiest face in the village of Content.” 

Sister Faith might have no right to feel other 
than a strictly impersonal grief over the frequent 
lapses of Mark Gray. Her neighbors would cer¬ 
tainly have said so, for, however much they may 
gossip upon certain topics, those who bear the name 
of Friends are not given to coupling the names of 
men and maidens with sly anticipatory smiles. But 
the youth had never raised his merry, blue eyes with 
that tell-tale, eager light in them to any other girl, 
and Faith knew it. Intuition in such matters is 
bred of the heart and as often exists beneath a 
plain white kerchief as under diamond neck¬ 
laces. 

The fourth was Mark, himself. Despite the now 
childlike peace of his slumber, there were moments 
when he bore the heaviest mental burden of them all. 
Why was he so accursed? 

The spring dawn slowly brightened. The East¬ 
ward speeding automobile swept up a slope from the 
summit of which its occupants could now see, still 
far away before and below them, the peaceful val¬ 
ley and village of Content. Through it the smooth 
State highway passed, after winding down and down 
between fields pied with buttercups and clover and 
many neat little market gardens edged with fruit 
trees blooming pink and white. Its driver instinc- 



DWELLERS IN CONTENT 9 


tively slowed down a little and a pleased expression 
crossed his scarred and ugly face. 

“Gee, Flash, that’s kinder pretty, ain’t it?” he re¬ 
marked impulsively again. 

His companion answered something which 
sounded like a grunt, and proceeded to light another 
cigarette, whose heavy Turkish incense intermingled 
with the malodorous smoke from the exhaust 
and trailed rearward, polluting the balmy spring 
air. 

“It’s sorter peaceful and . . . and Sunday school¬ 
like,” went on the other, wistfully. “D’ye know, 
I get desperate tired of living in the city, sometimes, 
Flash? I was raised on a farm.” 

“Yea . . . you act it. Come on, ‘Bull,’ cut the 
sob-stuff and step on the gas. I wanter get back to 
said city sometime to-day, and hit the hay.” He 
yawned and the driver sighed, mightily. He lacked 
the gift of expression, but there were moments when 
the music of poetry swelled within his heart and 
brought a little memory-ache with it. And now 
the sweetness and peace of the rural picture ahead 
took hold upon him. Without putting it into words, 
he felt the dovelike analogy suggested by that little 
distant village, composed of a cluster of simple and 
somber-tinted homes each like unto its neighbor, and 
he instinctively knew that its women would be like¬ 
wise simple and sweet in their plain gray and white 
gowns, and its men close to nature and natural. To 
the man, bred on a farm and momentarily freed 




10 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


again from the whirlpool of the city’s milling life, 
it seemed as though he were slipping back into an¬ 
other and more pleasing existence. 

Again he sighed, prodigiously, and stepped on the 
accelerator as bidden. 



CHAPTER II 


CONTENT IS AWAKENED 

Six days each week Content arose with the sun. 
But in many a home a gentle Quakeress donned gray 
gown and adjusted white kerchief across her breast 
with geometric precision long before day had fully 
dawned, so that the simple meal with which her men¬ 
folk were to break their fast might be ready for 
them when the first bright heralds of the coming 
morn streamed over the eastern hills to summon 
them from the refreshment of slumber to labor 
again. 

Thus this morning Faith Franklyn, in her little 
home two miles distant from the village itself, had 
arisen by candle-light, already prepared breakfast 
for the one queer farm-hand, and was assisting her 
little motherless and fatherless family to dress. 

She was still patiently brushing the tangled, 
golden locks of five-year-old Hope when, following 
a sudden roar which shattered the peace out-of- 
doors, the child broke away and ran to join her 
brother, three years her senior, before the open win¬ 
dow. 

“Gosh!” exclaimed the latter, “that one was going 
hell-bent-f’r-elecshun.” 


ii 


12 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Verily thou hatht thaid it,” lisped the dainty 
bud from the same stock which had produced the 
blossom, Faith. 

“Children! David! Where dost thou learn to 
speak language so unseemly and wicked? I know, 
of course. It is from Friend Jeremiah. Will the 
poor man never forget the manner of speech which 
he learned as a youth, when he was of the world, 
worldly? Sometimes I fear that it is hopeless to 
strive to change him.” She sighed; then her sweet 
lips took on a sterner expression as she continued, 
“But thou shalt not be led astray by him, even if I 
have to punish thee, which heaven forbid,” she 
added under her breath. “Thou art old enough 
to know better than say words like—nay, I shall not 
even repeat them. What doth the Apostle Matthew 
tell us about swearing? Answer me, David.” 

At her rebuke the boy hung his handsome little 
head and shifted from one bare foot to the other. 
Finally, in response to her insistent demand, he 
mumbled, “I say unto you, ‘swear not at all: neither 
by the heaven; for it is God’s throne; nor by the 
earth; for it is His footstool. But let your con¬ 
versation . . ” 

“ ‘Communication,’ ” corrected Faith. 

“‘Communication be, Yea, yea; nay, nay, for 
whatever is more than these cometh of evil.’ Why 
doth he say, ‘you,’ instead of ‘thou,’ Faith?” 

“He was speaking to a multitude. Yea, thou 
hast forgotten some of it, but that is the gist. And 



CONTENT IS AWAKENED 13 


thou knowest that the first word which thou saidest 
was not . . . not nice. Well, it was not. It was 
closely akin to ... to profanity ... I think. 
Still thou art but a lad, and I forgive thee, this 
time, David.” She bent and kissed him, tenderly, 
and would have changed the subject; but David— 
freed from the fear of further censure—was not 
ready to let it drop. 

“Friend Mark sayeth words like that, sometimes. 
I heard him say . . . the one akin to profanity 
when I rode the old Prophet down to the smithy 
to be shod, yesterday.” 

His sister flushed slightly, but answered still 
more sternly, “If that is so he doeth very wrong, 
and I am sorry—almost as sorry as I was to hear 
thee utter it.” 

“Thou lovest Friend Mark dost thou not, sister?” 
the boy persisted. 

Her rosy color deepened a shade as she replied, 
“I ... I like him, surely.” 

“But The Book sayeth that we should love our 
neighbor as ourselves, and Mark is our neighbor, 
isn’t he, sister Faith?” 

“Of course.” Her troubled thoughts were, for 
the moment, two miles away, and by answering 
truthfully she dug a pit for herself to fall in. 

“Well then, if I must always do as The Book 
sayeth, why ... ?” 

“David, wilt thou stop asking questions, and fin¬ 
ish thy dressing! See, thy sister Hope is ready, 



14 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and breakfast hath been waiting for nearly half an 
hour.” 

“Gosh, I’m hungry as . . . Oh, I said it again! 
I’m sorry, Faith, honest I am,” repented the boy, 
and his sister sighed. 

Meanwhile, others in Content had been rising be¬ 
times. Half an hour earlier the first ray of the 
rising sun had been reflected from the rosy cheek 
of the apple that Sister Patience was polishing with 
care, preparatory to placing it atop a dish of its 
kind upon the breakfast table. Refrigerators were 
still unknown in the village, but Mother Nature 
knows how to protect her fruit when it is buried 
in straw, deep within her bosom. The apple very 
nearly fell from Patience’s hand, however, when a 
violent thud, overhead, shook the house and startled 
her from her customary composure—as she had 
been startled many a time before. A faint shadow 
like a cloud passed across her placid face, followed 
by a dart of sunshine in the guise of a tender little 
smile. 

“Dear lad,” she whispered; then added, speaking 
her thoughts aloud, “Mark, Mark, why wilt thou 
jump over the foot of thy bed, upon arising? It 
is surely not seemly actions in one now grown to 
manhood’s estate, and at least it endangereth thy 
limbs.” 

But, in the room above, Mark was not thinking 
of possible peril to his sturdy legs, although for the 



CONTENT IS AWAKENED 15 


moment his thoughts were serious enough, and cast 
a shadow of distress over his bright countenance. 
He spoke aloud, impulsively, “Gosh, I forgot again. 
O God, why dost Thou permit me to forget again, 
so often? Of a surety I believe that I am not like 
other men and a sinner, although it is not by 
my desire.” Suddenly he clasped his strong hands 
and closed his eyes, while his moving lips formed 
the words, “Lead me not into temptation but de¬ 
liver me from evil, O Lord, for verily I fear that 
I have a wayward heart, as Friend Dyer Dexter say- 
eth; although I cannot see why using the strong 
muscles which Thou has given me, to jump with a 
little, is wrong. Nay, I cannot, for the life of me.” 

There followed another, but lesser, thud as Mark 
dropped to his knees for his morning prayer. He 
had not faced the wall, but instinctively turned to¬ 
ward the open window, through which came the 
cheerful note of a warbler’s song, borne on the fresh 
spring breeze. 

A very few moments later Mark walked sedately 
into the combination kitchen and dining-room in 
the footsteps of John Gray. The toil-hardened 
hands of both were folded, their eyes sedately down¬ 
cast. 

“I bid thee good morning, Sister Patience. May 
the spirit of the Lord attend thee throughout this 
day,” said the elder and Patience answered, “And 
thee, Friend John.” But even as she spoke she was 



16 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


thinking, “How nicely Mark hath parted his hair, 
this morning! It lieth quite flat, but, alas, his 
sleeves and pantaloons seem to grow shorter, daily. 
They are fully three inches too brief, and I have 
already let the hems down as far as is possible, 
dear lad.” 

The smith turned to the window to fill his bellow¬ 
like lungs with a few deep draughts of the morning 
air, and Patience, who had likewise turned, suddenly 
• felt her prim waist seized in the embrace of a sinewy 
arm and a kiss planted upon her furrowed cheek. 
With an involuntary start she cried aloud, “Oh!” 

“Patience! Hast thou hurt thyself?” inquired 
Gray, concern in his deep voice. 

“Nay, it is nothing, Friend John. I . . . I . . .” 

“So, a bear hug from this arm is nothing, is it, 
Sister Patience?” Mark demanded with a quick 
laugh. “Then the next time . . .” 

“ 'The next time,’ thou wouldst do better to re¬ 
member that thou art no longer a child to show 
thy affection in such a boisterous manner, Mark.” 

“I acted on impulse, father. Mornings like this 
I somehow forget that I am not still a boy, and 
thou knowest how dearly I love Patience—she’s 
the only mother I remember. Besides, where is the 
harm?” A rebellious note had crept into Mark’s 
words. 

“In that act of affection, none, except in that it 
was one more demonstration of thine unconquered 
impulses, which so often . . 



CONTENT IS AWAKENED 17 


“Oh, I know. But I sometimes feel that if men 
forever hide their real feelings—those which are not 
really wicked—they are in truth hypocrites, and The 
Book saith . . 

John Gray broke sternly in, “Nay, Mark, make 
not the Bible thine excuse in this matter; thou know- 
est better than this. The worldly libertines might 
use such argument as that, and if all men acted in 
accordance with it, wherein would we differ from 
the beasts? Self-restraint is a lesson that all have 
need to learn, and only by learning to conquer our 
impulses in small things can we strengthen our wills 
so as to restrain our passions in time of great temp¬ 
tation. That is a fundamental principle of our 
faith, as thou well knowest. Wouldst thou then 
stubbornly abnegate it, and seek to be a law unto 
thyself ?” 

“Nay, father. Thou art right. It is a lesson 
that I have need to learn . . . but sometimes I 
think that I never shall learn it. Somehow it 
is very hard for me to do. Why? Am I really 
weak? Am I lacking, wholly lacking, in the Spirit, 
in spite of the heritage of my blood and the training 
which thou hast always given me so faithfully? .1 
don’t feel that that is so, yet something must be 
wrong with me. What is it, father?” 

It was one of the moments when the light-hearted 
lad felt keenly troubled concerning himself, and his 
countenance showed the fact so plainly tha-t tea-rs 
sprang to Sister Patience’s tired eyes and she failed 



18 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


to see the smith’s startled glance in her direction. 

“A fault frankly acknowledged is half rectified, 
Mark. All that thou hast need to do is strive and 
pray. The spirit is like thy bodily sinews—both 
require exercise in order to become strong. Exer¬ 
cise thy soul and it will overcome all things. But 
I do not mean to. lecture thee; it is thy battle—the 
one which every Quaker is commanded to wage. 
Fight it out for thyself, my son. And now let us 
all turn our thoughts to the Giver of spiritual 
strength.” 

He cleared his throat and began, “The Lard is my 
shepherd.” The voices of the other two—Mark’s 
young and vibrant, Patience’s toned to a whisper— 
joined with his in the familiar verses. Mark kept 
his blue eyes tightly closed until they came to the 
lines “Thou preparest a table before me,” when, of 
their own accord, they flew open and turned upon 
the simple breakfast board. The biggest and rosiest 
apple atop the rest seemed to wink, tantalizingly, at 
him as the sunbeams played on its glistening sur¬ 
face. His lips continued mechanically to repeat 
the words of the psalm, but his mind abruptly 
switched to mundane matters. “My cup runneth 
over.” Thoughts of the rich, sweet juices with 
which that apple seemed fairly to be bursting made 
Mark’s mouth water. He stopped speaking for 
an instant, and barely succeeded in coming in 
strongly on the closing words, “and I will dwell in 
the house of the Lord forever.” 



CONTENT IS AWAKENED 19 


If John Gray noticed the young man’s lapse he 
did not indicate the fact, but immediately began the 
long grace, throughout which Mark’s eyes, under 
partly closed lids, were not to be torn from that 
luscious specimen of the fruit which the wily ser¬ 
pent bad used in tempting mother Eve. “Amen,” 
pronounced the speaker and the youth’s itching fin¬ 
gers stretched out and closed upon the appealing 
apple. But something—perhaps a subconscious re¬ 
alization of the fact that the other’s face had taken 
on a look of pained surprise—caused him to relin¬ 
quish it; his fingers dropped to the rim of the bowl 
and he passed it to Sister Patience. Both she and 
John Gray pointedly avoided taking the choicest 
specimen, and, now that it was properly his to pos¬ 
sess if he would, Mark likewise passed it by and 
selected the smallest apple in the dish. 

He smiled a little, as though amused by his own 

t 

thoughts. It really was ludicrously small; not 
large enough even to whet the appetite of such a 
youthful giant as he was, much less have the least 
part in satisfying it. Mark glanced at the other two, 
who were methodically paring their fruit, then at the 
bone-handled knife beside his own plate. His 
strong hands suddenly twisted in opposite direc¬ 
tions and the apple split into perfect halves. He 
caught once more the expression of silent reproach 
and reminder on the smith’s face, and his own well- 
tanned countenance grew slowly crimson. 

It was a little, a trivial thing, but many such make 




20 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


up a day, and Mark’s days were replete with unor¬ 
thodox acts. 

The meal silently proceeded for a time. Then the 
silence was abruptly shattered in a startling manner. 
From near-by, out-of-doors, there came a sharp ex¬ 
plosion like a gunshot, followed instantly by a cry 
and a splintering crash. 



CHAPTER III 


QUICK CHANGES 

At the first of the three sounds Mark flung his 
head up, eyes flashing, and broad, shapely nostrils 
extended. He—a Quaker born and reared ami'd the 
environs and precepts of peace—appeared like a 
warho*rse that suddenly hears the din of distant 
battle! With the first note of the cry he sprang 
from his chair, which overturned and fell, clattering, 
behind him. The crash sent him to the window, 
through which he thrust his big form with sur¬ 
prising agility, to land squarely in the middle of 
Sister Patience’s lovingly tended bed of lavender 
and Sweet William, and thence to leap for the road¬ 
way. He disappeared from the sight of the two 
whom he left, sitting frozen in their places. 

John Gray raised his hands and let them fall back 
upon the table wkh a gesture of helpless resignation, 
and when he turned to glance at the woman oppo¬ 
site him he saw that tears were trembling on the 
sparse lashes of her downcast eyes. 

“Nay, do not weep, Sister Patience. Tears are 
of no avail. We, who know, have got to gird our 
loins anew and fight for him, the Lord aiding us.” 

“Amen,” she whispered. 


21 


22 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


Even as they spoke, a strange alteration was oc¬ 
curring in Mark’s behavior. He had taken scarcely 
a dozen fleet paces down the roadway before he 
stopped as abruptly as he had started. The intense 
light faded from his blue eyes; his quivering mus¬ 
cles relaxed and he dropped his head in contrition. 
For a second time, and the day hardly begun, he 
felt a sweep of shame over having yielded to un¬ 
explained impulse, and spoke aloud, vehemently, 
“O God, what is the matter with me, that I should 
act thus? Truly I must be possessed, for I could 
not help it; I just could not!” 

Equally in anger at himself and in a violent effort 
to master his impelling desire to run on, he clinched 
his hands until the nails bit deep into the calloused 
palms. Just beyond the bend in the road, a few rods 
distant, the unknown tragedy called. A shot, a cry, 
a crash, occurring almost simultaneously! These 
were sounds strange to the peaceful village of Con¬ 
tent; they were enough to stir the most lethargic, 
to arouse one most strictly schooled in self-control. 
But who, other than he, thought Mark, would have 
acted as he had just done, spurred on by irresist¬ 
ible impulse to reach the scene of the drama in¬ 
stantly? He would, he must, learn to master him¬ 
self and the strange urgings within his heart! 

With his purposeful jaw sternly set, Mark swung 
about on his heel. Head up and shoulders squared, 
eyes turning neither to right nor left so that he 
might not see the other neighbors whom he heard 



QUICK CHANGES 


23 


coming toward the spot which he was quitting, un¬ 
seen, he went straight back home. He walked in 
the unlatched door and to the dining room, where 
the two other members of the household viewed his 
abrupt return with renewed astonishment. 

“What is it, lad?” demanded John Gray. His 
tone was not unkind; it held something of implied 
pardon, something of natural curiosity. 

“I do not know. I had but reached the road when 
I returned to my senses, and to the house, to ask 
thy pardon . . . again.” 

The older man debated and made up his mind 
quickly. Mark had deliberately punished himself, 
and John knew, likewise, that beneath his cloak of 
control and humility every nerve was still aquiver 
with suppressed excitement. After all he was a 
youth, and adventure was afoot. 

“Perchance some one hath been hurt and thou 
canst be of assistance. Our house is near. Go, 
my boy.” 

Mark’s eyes betrayed his gratitude. He said 
nothing, however, but quietly took his flat felt hat 
from its peg in the hall and walked with measured 
step, out of the proper exit this time, to the roadway. 
Then eagerness overcame him and he broke into a 
run. 

Although the sun was yet but little above the rim 
of the eastern horizon, Content was visibly stirring, 
and much more quickly than was its wont. Prim¬ 
faced women were peering from the windows of 





24 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


homes which Mark passed; a store-keeper had 
paused in the act of removing the shutters from his 
shop; an ancient market wagon was coming down 
the road at a clip which was far from sedate; and 
all eyes were focused on the spot which now came 
into the view of the young man as he turned the 
curve at a rapid pace. 

Already quite a collection of villagers stood clus¬ 
tered together near a bit of the rail fencing which 
lined the road. Just beyond was a wagon with 
broken shafts, half in and half out of which stood 
a trembling old horse. Its owner, Friend Dyer 
Dexter, was attempting to quiet it by shouting, 
“Whoa, whoa, whoa” in a high, cracked voice. 
Mark’s seeking eyes caught sight of something red, 
through a gap in the crowd. His heart-beat quick¬ 
ened with his flying steps. Was it blood? Had 
some one actually been shot—in Content? 

Suddenly he laughed. The cluster of men had 
parted and disclosed to his gaze the ruddily resplen¬ 
dent body of a touring car. Its front wheels were 
half out of sight in a deep gully, its hood thrust in¬ 
quisitively through the broken bars of the fence. 

Mark slowed down, but his thoughts continued to 
race, now in reverse. Almost wholly self-trained as 
a mechanician though he was, he understood auto¬ 
mobiles, for all of the repairing of cars, disabled in 
minor ways, fell to his lot—John Gray intended to 
die as he had lived, a simple blacksmith. It required 
no exceptional mentality to deduce what had oc- 



QUICK CHANGES 


25 


curred; the clues were plain enough. Some city 
man, who turned night into day, had come tearing 
down the state highway in his big car, dashed around 
Smilie’s corner, yonder, and met Friend Dyer, jog¬ 
ging storeward behind the bundle of skin and bones 
he called his horse. Outraged by the sudden appear¬ 
ance of the roaring monster at that unaccustomed 
hour in the morning, half-blind old Ned had jumped 
almost out of his skin, not to mention the shafts and 
harness. As for the owner of the car, he must 
have first shut off the spark an*d applied the brake, 
and almost simultaneously changed his mind and 
speeded up, realizing that his best chance of avoid¬ 
ing a full collision was to shoot ahead of horse and 
wagon. “That would very likely have caused a 
backfiring of the free gasoline, through the muffler, 
and produced my pistol shot!” thought Mark, laugh¬ 
ing again at the absurdity of his excitement. Fi¬ 
nally, the automobile could not quite negotiate the 
sharp turn, at the speed it was going; hence the crash 
and its present plight. 

It was, after all, commonplace enough; nothing 
very serious had actually happened, yet suddenly 
Mark felt hot anger swelling up within his heart, 
and his countenance mirrored the expression of cen¬ 
sure which appeared on the faces of most of the 
other on-lookers. A man who would drive at such 
a reckless pace was nothing more nor less than a 
speed maniac and a danger to society; he should 
not be allowed to have a license, especially he should 



26 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


not be allowed in Content. Supposing the wagon 
had held Faith Franklyn, who often drove into the 
village early in the morning with vegetables from 
her little farm; and supposing the barely averted 
accident had turned into a tragedy! There was an 
element of humor in his righteous indignation 
against the stranger, since he himself had frequently 
been guilty of speeding a car which he was testing 
out, after making repairs thereto. 

Unconscious of the fact that he had slightly 
bumped Dyer Dexter and drawn a black scowl from 
him, Mark strode forward with words of youthful 
impetuosity burning on his tongue. A pallid 
faced, flashily attired young man lolled, rather than 
sat, upon the seat of the motor car, apparently wholly 
unconcerned over what had occurred, if the cigar¬ 
ette which hung miraculously suspended from his 
lower lip were any true indication. At the same 
instant another unfamiliar form came into view 
over the lifted hood of the car, as the erstwhile 
driver who had been poking aimlessly amid the 
mechanism of the twin six cylinders stood erect. 
Mark’s speech was halted by the latter’s words, de¬ 
livered forcefully in a voice like the rumble of a 
train in a tunnel, “I’ll be hanged ’f I know what’s 
the matter with the thing.” At least that is what 
his remarks boiled down to, although he did not 
say “hanged” and he did add a number of descrip¬ 
tive adjectives before the word, “thing.” 

Several of the Quaker on-lookers drew back, with 



QUICK CHANGES 


27 


the expression of stern disapproval deepening on 
their faces, and one curious Sister made hasty re¬ 
treat, her hotly flushing face entirely hidden within 
her sunbonnet. 

Mark’s heated blood reached the boiling point. 
He might, thoughtlessly, have spoken the word 
which David had used, having heard it from the 
lips of some passing motorist, but profanity was 
abhorrent to him—Content still classed it not as a 
venial sin but as a clear breach of one of the Ten 
Commandments. He stepped through the thinning 
crowd, and exclaimed, “Friend, thou art commanded 
not to take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. 
Thou hast just done it, twice, in a very brief sen¬ 
tence, and thou art therefore a double sinner. Fur¬ 
thermore, thou art no gentleman, thus to use pro¬ 
fanity where there are women present! We wel¬ 
come none of thine ilk here.” 

The burly form of the man addressed straightened 
up in surprise, and Mark started a little. The 
stranger might have lacked an inch of his own tow¬ 
ering height, and now looked shorter still by reason 
of the fact that he was standing in the gully. But 
Mark, who was accustomed to physical bigness, 
realized that he had never seen such a broad and 
bulging pair of shoulders, or such tremendous 
hands as now rested on the top of the hood. By 
comparison with them the stranger’s close-cropped 
head appeared disproportionately small, and it cer¬ 
tainly was ugly. The mouth was broad; the jaw 



28 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


protruded like a bull dog’s; one large ear seemed 
strangely misshapen; and the whole face was deeply 
pock-marked, while a white scar ran from one cor¬ 
ner of the flattened nose across the cheek to the 
temple. Yet, for all its ugliness, it was not a re¬ 
pellent face. There were laughter’s lines about the 
corners of the mouth, which now hung open—giving 
its possessor a look of almost childlike surprise. 

For a moment no answer came. Then the 
stranger ejaculated, “Well, I’ll be . . .” He 
stopped just short of sinning a third time, and took 
several waddling, flat-footed steps which carried 
him around the rear of the car and face to face with 
Mark. He stood, firmly planted on a pair of colos¬ 
sal legs, his hands half-clinched, his arms, whose 
biceps were as big as a normal man’s thighs, swing¬ 
ing slightly back and forth. He looked something 
like a gigantic and ferocious frog, partially 
transformed into a man. The youth opposite him 
felt his own big muscles grow taut again, and the 
blood pound heavily in his heart. He was angry, 
not afraid; and he stood his ground without re¬ 
treating an inch. 

Suddenly the other burst forth with a bellow of 
laughter, his small eyes almost closing in his mirth, 
and he exploded, “Well, I’ll be sanctimoniously 
blessed! D’yuh get that, Flash? The guy’s been 
lecturin’ me— me, mind yuh—on cussin’.” 

As swiftly, the twisted smile faded from his face, 
giving place to a ferocious scowl. His head seemed 



QUICK CHANGES 


29 


to shrink down amid the bulging muscles of his neck, 
and he took another step forward. Mark did not 
budge. Most of the collection of witnesses drew 
back, but one or two of the stauncher pacifists 
moved as though to intervene. Fighting was for¬ 
bidden; besides Mark had unexpectedly become a 
champion of right and so risen in their esteem. 
Strong as they knew him to be, he appeared out¬ 
matched by this menacing stranger. 

Once more the latter burst into rumbling laugh¬ 
ter. He shot forth his huge hand and exclaimed, 
“Put ’er there, Billy Sunday. Yuh may talk like 
a bloomin’ Sunday-school teacher, but you’re a game 
guy . . . and hanged if yuh don’t look like one 
that’d be clever wid his mits. Anyhow, I got tuh 
hand it to yuh fer havin’ the courage of your con- 
wictions, as the poet ses, and I’m fer you. Put ’er 
there!” 

What prompted him into unhesitating compliance 
Mark could not have explained. He seemed sud¬ 
denly to sense that this mighty man was frank and 
honorable after his kind, that his heart was placed 
right, and his own hand went out to meet the 
other’s crushing grip half way. There was 1 an 
audible gasp, a murmur of protest and disapproval 
from several of the others. Mark ha,d made terms 
with the enemy. 

The opposition had its usual effect where the 
youth was concerned, and he answered, heartily, 
“Thy language is strange and seems to me uncouth, 



30 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Friend; but I think that thou art making an apology 
and if so . . ” 

“Yuh got me, the first time, Bo. Sure I was 
apologizin’, and I’d be pleased tuh do the same tuh 
the dames, but they’ve went. I cuss considerable, 
but it don’t mean nothin’—jest sorter lettin’ off 
•steam, like. I don’t go in fer .lbsin’ my temper— 
don’t pay no dividends—but somethin’s gone and 

bust itself in the-, — beggin’ your pardon again, 

—engine, jest when we was in a big hurry tuh 
get home. Got outer kilter when she hit the bars, 
I guess. She ain’t no fence-jumper, but I had 
tuh put her at it. I’d ruther risk my own neck, and 
Flash’s here, than kill a hoss—yuh see, I was raised 
on a farm. Besides, I figgered that me, not havin’ 
no neck tuh speak of, wasn’t takin’ much of a risk, 
and Flash, here, wouldn’t have been much of a loss 
in any case.” 

The speaker paused to give- vent to a deep throated 
chuckle at his own exquisite wit, and then added, 
with a wave of his immense hand toward the non¬ 
chalant youth, “Flash, here, claims tuh be my man¬ 
ager, which means that I do the work and he 
grabs off ten per cent, of what I pull down. Get 
me?” 

“Nay,” answered Mark, a puzzled expression on 
his countenance. “I am afraid that I do not en¬ 
tirely understand—thy meaning is a little hidden, 
Friend. But I do understand what thou hast done, 
and thy courage was commendable, surely. Thou 




QUICK CHANGES 


31 


. . . thou hast said that friend Flash is thy man¬ 
ager. Art thou, then, a ... a play actor?” 

Perceiving the look of returning disapprobation 
on Mark’s face, the other broke forth in another 
roar of merriment. 

“Play actor. Play actor! Gee, ain’t that rich, 
Flash? Me, a play actor! No, son. The only 
kind of an actor I am is a bad actor, sometimes. 
Say, ain’t yuh never heard of ‘Bull’ Durham?” 

Mark brightened a little. He secretly thought 
himself far better versed in the ways of the world 
than any of his simple neighbors, and took a boyish 
pride in displaying his knowledge. Moreover, 
within his big frame dwelt a soul which was highly 
sensitive to flattery and ridicule 1 , a'like, and he dis¬ 
liked to display ignorance. 

“Yea,” he responded, promptly. “It is a form 
of the filthy weed that men smoke. Art thou, 
then. . . '. ?” 

“A cigarette? Do I look like one, I ask yuh? 
No, sirree. The fellers got to callin’ me ‘Bull’ fer 
. . . obvious reasons and most especially on account 
of my neck lookin’ like the gentleman cow’s on the 
advertisement, and the Durham part jest naturally 
followed. As fer what I am, why . . . Aw, you 
tell him, Flash, my well-known mddesty prevents.” 




CHAPTER IV 


THE FULL 

The cheaply resplendent youth, whom he had con¬ 
stantly spoken of as “Flash,” paused in the act of 
lighting a fresh cigarette from the half-inch butt of 
its predecessor, languidly waved it towards the moun¬ 
tain of muscle and drawled, thinly, “Meet up with 
‘the Bull’—punk prize fighter when I got hold of 
him; now wrestler nonpareil. If that’s over your 
head I’ll put it into plain English and tell the world 
that he’s the best catch-as-catch-can mat man alive 
to-day—and Doc Roller, Gotch, Zybysco and the rest 
can put that in their pipe and smoke it. They won’t 
let him prove it, for the good and sufficient reason 
that they’re yellow—yellow as that!” Flash ex¬ 
tended the saffron-tinted forefinger which held his 
cigarette. 

“Flash likes tuh hear himself talk. I ain’t ar- 
rove in their class, yet, and he knows it. I’d be 
gettin' there faster if I had a real manager, ’stead 
of a dope fiend. No offense, Flash,” he added, 
propitiatingly, and continued. “That’s me. 
Farmer by inclination; wrastler by perfession.” 

“Wrestler —by professionf Surely thou dost not 
mean that thou engagest in bodily contests for 

32 


THE BULL 


33 


. . . for money?” inquired Mark, drawing back a 
step. 

“Sure . . . when I can get it, and it's cornin’ 
fairly soft these days. Lamp yonder Tierce Spar¬ 
row’ fer confirmation,” answered Mr. Durham, and 
he pointed, with pardonable pride, towards the high 
priced car. “Yessirree, I ain’t got no serious com¬ 
plaints tuh make; it’d be a lot better than farmin’, 
if it wasn’t fer havin’ to associate with guys like 
Flash. Now, you . . . course I don’t know what 
you do fer a livin’, but I’d like nothin’ better than 
tuh help yuh break intuh the game—you’ve got the 
build, kid, you sure have. Lookit the paddin’ on 
them shoulders, Flash!” The Bull’s hand descended 
and Mark, sturdily constructed as he was, winced 
a little. Whereat the Bull laughed noisily and said, 
with the pride of a boy, “Some wallop in that mit, 
kid, even if I didn’t amount tuh much in the squared 
circle. But on the mat! Say, d’yuh ever do any 
wrastlin’, boy?” 

“Yea, verily. I have need to wrestle with the 
Spirit, often,” responded Mark, earnestly. “Even 
as the apostle Paul wrote to the Ephesians, Tor our 
wrestling is not against flesh and blood but against 
the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the 
spirits of wickedness.’ ” 

“D’yuh get that, Flash? He wrastles with the 
spirit often, ses he. Put an 's’ on that and you’re in 
the class of Flash, here. I done some wrastlin’ 
with spirits myself, awhile back, and got throwed 



34 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


more times than ever I did on the mat. But I cut 
it out, I cut it out. For one thing they’re getting 
too da . . . blamed scarce and high-toned an oppo¬ 
nent, nowadays, seem’ as how I live in Philly, not 
Noo York, so I ain’t downed any, lately. Besides, 
I reformin’, I am. First it was booze; now it 
looks like Fd got tuh cut out cussin’.” He winked 
broadly at his friend, whose thin face went 
through an evolution which made it appear as 
though he might have been attempting to smile 
with his mouth full of sour pickle. 

The Bull turned abruptly back to the silent en¬ 
gine, remarking, “Well, we ought tuh be hittin’ the 
pike fer home. It’s gettin’ considerable past my 
bedtime, but it sure looks like somethin’ was bust, 
here. Hanged ’f I know what, though.” He 
peered beneath the lifted hood with a comical ex¬ 
pression of helplessness on his face, and slowly 
scratched his close-cropped poll. “I can drive a car 
as fast as the next guy, but outside of that I’m like 
the nigger coachman whose boss had him take a six 
months’ correspondence course in chufferin’, and 
then asked him did he understand everythin’ about 
an automobile. Yuh remember it? No? That’s 
good. Flash, here, when I tell him a funny story, 
always ses, ‘Huh, I kicked the foot out uh my cradle 
laughin’ at that one.’ ” 

He stopped, and began to rebusy himself in in¬ 
effectual attempts to discover the trouble with the 
motor, and at last Mark’s curiosity overcame him. 



THE BULL 


35 


“What did the . . . the colored man say?” he 
asked. 

“Say? Well, I'll be ... jugged if I did’nt 
forget tuh finish it, after all. He ses, ses he, 
‘Yessah, boss. Ah shore onderstands every last 
thing about a nautimobile, ’ceptain how de debil it 
goes without no hoss tuh pull it’ ” 

Mark laughed. 

“Perchance I may be able to aid thee, friend, for 
my trade is that of mechanic, and I labor much 
over disabled motor cars.” 

“ The h . . . yuh say! Speakin’ of angles, as 
the poet ses. Well, supposin' yuh jest jump down 
intuh this gutter an’ give her the once over.” 

Mark moved around beside him and began to 
make an examination of the motor that had ceased 
to function, while the talkative wrestler continued 
in a manner which indicated that his lungs were 
as sound as his muscles were strong. “Me sayin’, 
‘give her the once over’ reminds me of one time 
when I was on the boards givin’ exhibitions with an 
English mat man, name of Nelson—‘Half Nelson,’ 
we called him, naturally. Ever hear of him? 
Well, I suppose yuh wouldn’t have. I ustuh down 
him, but not half so easy as the American langwidge 
did—it sure had a strangle hold on him, but he was 
game, I’ll say that for him. He was game and 
always come back fer more. Took most of my 
val’able time try in’ tuh teach him it. Well, I re¬ 
member spendin’ the better part of a week one day 



36 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


explainin’ the meanin’ of givin’ a doll the ‘double 
0.’ What’s that? Why, I mean the o-o; the 
‘once over.’ You know. Well, that evenin’ a 
bunch of us guys was strolling down Market 
Street and at the corner of Broad a couple of 
chickens passed by, dressed ...” 

“‘Chickens’? ‘Dressed’?” Mark had paused in 
his work, and now regarded the garrulous talker 
with bewilderment. 

“Sure. Dressed chickens. That’s a good one, 
Flash. You know; war paint and feathers up here, 
nothing much tuh speak of below the knees. Well, 
the natural thing happened, of course. All of us 
was willin’ to risk a crick in the neck and one eye, 
as Pat said. Then this English guy speaks up and 
ses, proud as Punch, ‘Aw. That, I presume, is wot 
you Americans call givin’ them the once arfter! 
Well, rawther!’ Lord, can yuh beat it, I ask 
yuh?” 

The Bull’s laughter cannonaded forth again; 
Flash smiled wearily, as much as to say, “Pm will¬ 
ing to oblige, occasionally, but it’s the ninety- 
ninth time I’ve heard that story”: and Mark smiled, 
too, out of politeness, but with only the vaguest idea 
of his new acquaintance’s meaning and a feeling 
that perhaps he should not be smiling at all. 

The speaker would have continued his reminis¬ 
cing, but Mark cut him short with the announce¬ 
ment that there appeared to be nothing seriously the 
matter with the engine, and added, “Verily they con- 



THE BULL 


37 


struct this kind of a car sturdily and to withstand 
hard usage.” 

‘That’s why I bought it—although Flash, here, 
liked its sporty lines and the color,” answered the 
other. 

“The only thing that is wrong, as far as I can see, 
Friend, is that the jar severed several of the igni¬ 
tion connections. If we can get the machine to the 
smithy, yonder, I can make the repairs very quickly, 
I think.” 

“Yuh said a mouthful, kid. Come on, Flash. 
Tumble out and make yuhself useful—you ain’t 
much of a ornament at the best, and at six a. m. 
you always look like the last few hours of an ill- 
spent life.” 

The languid youth dismounted, leisurely, pushed 
back his lavender cuffs from his slender wrists 
and took hold of one of the front axles, after first 
dusting it off with a lavender-bordered handker¬ 
chief. • 

The Bull seized upon the other and cried 
“Huh!” His side came out of the ditch, partway, 
but the other remained as firmly fixed as the rock 
of Gibralter. Mark, who had been continuing 
his examination of the engine, stood erect, a little 
smile on his strong, young countenance. He strode 
to the side of Flash and, somewhat unceremoni¬ 
ously, shouldered him away, saying, “If thou wilt 
go and assist the . . . the Bull, I will raise this 




38 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Yea. If you can,” remarked the Bull, wiping 
the perspiration from his low brow with the back of 
a grimy hand. “Go along, Flash. Go sit down 
and smoke a cigarette, fer a change. I don’t 
need no help from you. See?” 

The two—one broad and bulky, the other tall 
and sinewy, with muscles which swelled and rip¬ 
pled under his firm flesh—bent together. They 
straightened legs and backs, and the heavy car came 
out of the ditch as though lifted by a derrick. A 
shove and it was back on the road. 

“Whew!” ejaculated the Bull, frankly. “Some 
lift, and you ain’t even blowin’, kid. Now, by 
thunder, I'm sure that yuh oughtuh . . . Say, 
what’s the matter? Got a cootie?” His interroga¬ 
tion was occasioned by the look of distress on 
Mark’s face, and his queer posture, for he was 
bent forward with one arm strained up the middle 
of his back. 

“Nay—at least I know not what a ‘cootie’ is, 
but I sadly fear that I have ripped the seam of my 
coat again.” 

He had; and, as he turned to display the gap¬ 
ing line of white, the other shouted with merriment. 
“ ‘Rippin’, old top’—as my friend Half Nelson 
would say. Well, don’t let a little thing like that 
worry yuh.” 

“But I cannot but be worried. Sister Patience 
hath sewed many a weary hour upon this gar¬ 
ment. ...” 




THE BULL 


39 


“As she sews so shall ye rip, as the poet ses. I 
guess that coat don’t owe yuh nothin’, kid. Judgin’ 
from its all ’round shortness yuh’ve had it long 
enough, I’d say. Anyhow, I’ll foot the repair 
bill—yuh done it helpin’ me. Hang the expenses; 
I’ve got plenty of them, as the feller ses. I could 
make a joke about your ‘sister Patience’ and your 
‘Sister’s patience,’ too, but ...” 

“Oh, can it, Bull,” interrupted the weary youth. 
“As a jokesmith you’re a darned good prize 
fighter, and Gawd knows you never got even a draw 
in the ring. You make me tired.” 

The childlike grin faded from the Bull’s face 
and he looked hurt, whereupon Mark felt a sudden 
sympathy for him. Flash was the real bully of 
the two, it would seem. Mr. Durham’s speech 
might be strange, almost incomprehensible, but quite 
obviously he was good-natured. The spirit of 
friendliness fairly exuded from him. Likewise he 
might be unconventional, uncouth and even wicked, 
in a way: but he certainly was natural; he said what 
he thought. To Mark, who often did the same, it 
was like a refreshing breeze after the pent-up 
cold storage atmosphere which surrounded most of 
his consciously restrained neighbors almost like a 
visible cloud. He found himself liking the stranger, 
heartily. Mark would have enjoyed telling him 
so. Instead, he said, “If thou wilt push with me, 
while Mr. Flash guides the car, we can roll it to 
the smithy in a moment or two.” 



40 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


The two men of might leaned their united weight 
on the rear of the tonneau and pushed the machine 
along while Flash walked beside it, with one hand, 
the fourth finger of which wore an immense near¬ 
diamond ring, resting on the steering wheel. A 
boy or two of the village lent his lesser aid. All 
of the older men had departed, one by one. In 
this fashion they propelled the automobile up a 
slight rise to the ancient smithy and into the yard, 
bringing it to a stop beside the damaged wagon of 
Friend Dyer Dexter, who had preceded them 
thither. He regarded their coming with a dark 
scowl, but John Gray merely glanced up from his 
examination of the smashed shaft, in slight sur¬ 
prise. With his leather apron on and his sleeves 
rolled up from his big, hairy arms he might have 
beeen the prototype for Longfellow’s smith, and 
the Bull regarded him with frank admiration. 
“Your dad, eh? Bet he’d make the scale go up 
after I got off,” he remarked; then called aloud, 
cheerfully, “Got another little job fer your es¬ 
tablishment, old timer. That skinny friend o’ 
your’s deliberately ran me into a fence. I’m going 
back home and get some of my pals in the legisla¬ 
ture tuh pass a bill obligin’ all hoss-drawn vehicles 
tuh carry horns and honk ’em at every cross road, 
fer the protection of us innocent automobilists.” 
The tooth-displaying grin faded from his face and 
he gave back Dexter’s scowl with compound inter¬ 
est. The latter stumbled back a step and the 



THE BULL 


41 


Bull laughed. He was like an overgrown boy; an 
April weather child. 

“Aw, I ain’t going tuh eat yuh, you’d stick in my 
throat like a shad. Ever try one? Jest the same 
yuh was on the wrong side of the road; I’d ’a made 
that turn, easy, if you hadn’t been. What's that? 
Oh, I thought yuh said something. My social 
errer.” He spoke with an attempt at* elaborate 
politeness which was so ludicrous that Mark smiled, 
until he felt Dyer Dexter’s close-set eyes boring 
angrily into him. The smile vanished from his 
countenance to reappear on that of the Bull, who 
took a step forward and slapped Dexter resound¬ 
ingly on the back. 

“Aw, don’t feel bad. I’m just spoofin’, as Half 
Nelson uster say. Know him? Never mind, he 
uster say it; Englishmen sure talk funny, now don’t 
they? I leave it tuh you. Guess I was more’n half 
tuh blame—or Flash, here, was; he was makin' 
me hit ’er up—and I’m willin’ tuh have the bill fer 
fixin’ them shafts tacked on tuh mine. Guess that’s 
all fair and friendly enough! Shake on it?” 

Dexter hesitated, then begrudgingly complied. 
Mark inwardly smiled. He knew the thoughts 
which were passing through his neighbor’s mind. 
He might have sued the city man, but litigation 
costs money. Besides, one of the shafts had been 
broken months before, and temporarily patched. 

“It is no more than is just, Friend John,” he 
said, hastily turning to the smith. “I will not say 



42 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


that the man is not fair, but the fault was his. If 
he seeks to make amends it is surely not for me 
to refuse, remembering the Lord’s teaching.” 

“I thought it was something about if a man 
punches yuh on one side of the jaw let him have a 
swipe at the other—at least that’s what my old 
Sunday-school teacher taught.” 

“Nay, then, thou art verily a man wholly of evil, 
thus to make jest of a text of scripture,” flamed 
Dexter. 

“He meaneth no evil, Friend Dyer,” hastily inter¬ 
posed Mark. “ ’Tis but his way. ...” He 
found himself addressing the other’s stiffly turned 
back as he marched, rather hurriedly, out of the 
yard. John Gray accompanied him, and they dis¬ 
appeared in the direction of Dexter’s store. 

The Bull grimaced and snorted, “A Quaker, ain’t 
he? Gee, they’re sure a rummy lot. Didn’t I offer, 
free gratis for nothin’, tuh foot his bill—the which 
will probably be as long as the other guy’s whis¬ 
kers.” 

“Thou art speaking of my father!” Mark’s voice 
was sharp. 

“Sure. That’s right, I forgot. Say, I’m sorry, 
buddy. I was jokin’.” 

“There are times when thy jokes are ill-considered, 
then,” was Mark’s stiff response. 

“And about as funny as a punch in the eye,” 
remarked Flash, sourly. And Mark suddenly felt 
like apologizing. 



CHAPTER V 


AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 

But a moment before, Mark had been earnestly 
championing Mr. Durham, insisting that “it was 
only his way.” Now he thought, contritely, “If 
I really meant what I said to Friend Dyer Dexter, 
why could I not have smiled when he spoke with 
seeming disrespect of father’s beard? Verily, it 
mattereth much whose ox is gored. Then, instead 
of making allowances for the fact that his speech 
is not like ours, I was angry and spoke in a man¬ 
ner to hurt his feelings. And then, when I was 
sorry, I said nothing—I made no apology. Indeed, 
I cannot understand myself; I am quick in temper, 
reluctant to acknowledge a fault. Altogether I 
am sadly lacking in the true spirit of Christian 
humility, and I know not how to cure myself.” 

Shaking his head, sorrowfully, the young Quaker 
walked into the shop to procure such tools as he 
needed to make the simple repairs. Flash lounged 
after him, attracted, perhaps by the subconscious ap¬ 
peal of the ruddy charcoal fire within the blackened, 
broad-mouthed chimney. At the door he paused to 
lean against the lintel and gaze with bored curiosity 
about the place and at the clutter of implements 

43 


44 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


appertaining to that ancient and honorable trade. 
The indescribably pungent odor which clings to 
every smithy offended his nostrils, and he drew 
from his silver cigarette case another “coffin nail'’— 
as he would have described it. Mark turned just 
in time to see him light it and carelessly flip away 
the still-burning match, which struck in a pile of 
rubbish and lay there, smoldering and sending up a 
tiny wraith of blue smoke. With two strides he 
reached the spot and extinguished the match beneath 
his heavy, square-toed boot. 

“Thou hast apparently failed to observe the sign 
above thy head, which enjoins thee from smoking 
here, Friend Flash,” he remarked, in a voice that was 
ominously calm. 

The man addressed heard only the words. He 
grinned, showing his uneven, yellowed teeth, took 
a deep puff, removed the cigarette from his lips, 
flicked off the ashes with a disdainful jerk of his 
finger, and very deliberately blew a cloud of thin, 
aerated smoke into Mark's face. 

Mark coughed. Then, for a moment, utter sur¬ 
prise held him statuelike. The only visible change 
which occurred in him was the quick flush that 
swept over his face and receded to leave it almost 
pale. Inwardly, he experienced again that tumultu¬ 
ous surge of red-hot blood through all the upper 
part of his body; the muscles of his hand contracted 
involuntarily, his nerves tingled. Before his eyes 
appeared a red mist, like a shimmering veil dropped 



AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 45 


down in front of them. It was nothing new. He 
had felt the same, momentarily, time and time again 
from the days of his earliest recollection, and it 
always presaged some outburst which left him both 
ashamed and disgraced. 

“I must keep my temper. I must control myself, 
now,” he thought. “He is unbearable, still he is 
but half my size, and if I strike him I may kill him. 
I must. ...” 

Even as Mark was thus mentally adjuring him¬ 
self, impulse forced him to take a stride towards 
the other, and an expression crept into his face 
which caused Flash to retreat, suddenly repentant 
of his temerity and on the verge of panic. Then, 
as quick as a thought, the Quaker’s long arms shot 
out. His hands closed on either side of his in- 
sulter’s slender waist and he lifted him at full arm’s 
length clean off the ground. Flash squirmed and 
kicked out, frantically, and called, “Bull! Bull!” 
but it availed him not at all. Writhing in his 
human vise he was borne out of the door and 
straight to the ancient trough. He looked down 
over his shoulder to see the murky water right be¬ 
low him. But only the bottom edge of his loudly 
checked and flaring coat-tails were destined to make 
its intimate acquaintance. He himself was set, de¬ 
liberately and firmly, on the wooden edge. The 
cigarette fell from his nerveless fingers, hissed, and 
became a harmless sodden thing. 

“Thou seest, Friend, that thou canst not smoke 


\ 




46 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


in the smithy.” Mark spoke in a tone which was 
actually mild, such as one might use in addressing 
a young child. 

The Bull, standing beside the car, his mouth wide 
open with astonishment, had been a speechless wit¬ 
ness of this swiftly acted little drama. Now that 
it was ended, he dropped ponderously down upon 
the low step of the machine, leaned his head back 
against the door and set to laughing so prodigiously 
that the tears came to his screwed-up eyes. When 
he found himself able to speak, he shouted, “Oh, 
ho, ho! Nay, friend Flash, thou canst not smoke 
in the smithy. That’s evident; that's perfectly 
plain. I’ll tell the world it is. Oh, wait till I tell 
the gang about how we’ve been reformed. First 
I’m cured of cussin’; then you're cured of cigarette 
smokin’. We’re gettin too good tuh be true, we 
are.” 

He sprang up with a display of surprising agility 
and thumped Mark resoundingly between the 
shoulder-blades. “It’s a crime fer them muscles of 
yours tuh be goin’ tuh waste in this here dead hole; 
it’s a cryin’ shame, that’s what it is, kid. You 
come along with me. Chuck your two-for-a-cent 
job, here—yuh won’t regret it, I’m tellin’ yuh. 
Wrastlin’; that’s what y’ought tuh be doin’. I’ll 
learn yuh, and grub-stake yuh till yuh get a start. 
Yessiree, I’ll guarantee tuh make a first-class wras- 
tler outer yuh; one that’ll make ’em all sit up and 
take notice. Easy money; nice close; an auty- 



AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 47 


mobile—yuh can have ’em. What d’yuh say, bo?” 

His enthusiastic insistence was infectious. Mark 
could not help thrilling a little at it, particularly 
since tucked away in a hidden corner of his heart 
he had the virile youth’s longing for adventure. 
The call of the far places, of the great city where 
it seemed stirring romance must have habitation, 
was by no means unknown to him. And the very 
force of the Bull’s deep voice shook him. Never¬ 
theless, Mark responded with commendable prompt¬ 
ness. 

“I say that, although I much appreciate thy kind¬ 
ness in making such an offer, I could not think of 
accepting, as thou thyself must know, Friend. I do 
not like to think evil of thee, for thy heart indeed 
seemeth to be kindly, but thy profession is surely an 
evil one. Are we not taught to avoid contention 
and abhor conflict? If we may not, then, fight even 
in a cause which seemeth righteous, wouldst 
thou tempt me to assault my fellow men for 
pay?” 

Seeing that he was no longer the object of Mark’s 
attention, Flash slipped from his uncomfortable 
seat, and stood regarding him with an expression 
that was both bitterly hostile and sneering. 

“Aw, shucks!” retorted the Bull. “Business is 
business, and mine’s legit. It ain’t prize fightin’. 
Besides, what’s the difference, anyway, between 
poundin’ a hoss-shoe and another guy, if he’s willin’, 
and ready tuh give as good as he gets, I’m askin’ 




48 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


yuh? It’s all in the game, kid; all in the game. 
And, believe me, there’s plenty of guys who’d a 
da ... a hanged sight ruther get hit in the face 
than the pocketbook, which is where you, and the 
rest that are in the buyin’ and sellin’ business, hit 

> ^ ff 

em. 

“Nay. That is false philosophy. f A laborer is 
worthy of his hire.’ Thou art not such.” 

“Ain’t I though? Believe me, I earn what I get. 
And I ain’t goin’ around robbin’ folks, profiteerin’ 
in the necessities of life, like plenty of sanctimoni¬ 
ous cusses that think they’re too darned good to 
associate with me. They don’t have tuh give up 
their dough tuh see me and another guy roll around 
on a mat, unless they want tuh. I ain’t injurin’ 
nobody. I’m a luxury, see? A luxury, that’s me.” 

He put his head back and laughed loudly at the 
idea. 

“Nay, I do not see it. Thou art rather a temp¬ 
tation to those whose animal lusts make them crave 
the excitement of contention,” Mark sternly re¬ 
torted. “And I have heard that such are often 
the least able to afford it—the money they pay thee 
is food taken from the mouths of hungry children; 
clothes taken from their backs.” 

“Careful, kid!” The Bull was scowling, now. 
“No guy can talk like that tuh me, and get away 
with it.” 

“Perhaps I should not have spoken so. I meant 
no personal offense for . . . for I like thee, Friend. 





AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 49 


But that is how it seems to me. Besides, thou art 
surely injuring thyself for ...” 

“Oh, yuh don’t get hurt; none tuh speak of, any¬ 
how. You’re likely tuh pound your own finger 
sometimes, ain’t yuh? Or drop a anvil, or some¬ 
thin’, on your foot?” 

“I did not mean physical hurt, but spiritual. 
Thou canst not attack thy fellow man without being 
angry, and anger ...” 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Bo; dead wrong. 
Business is business, and my mat motter is ‘always 
keep your temper, Bull.’ If the other guy gets 
mad, all right. That’s his look-out, and so much 
the worse for him. He’s pie fer yuh, then. Why, 
even the parsons in the army recommend boxin’ 
and wrastlin’; say it’s good discipline; makes men. 
I say so, too. Yuh gotter keep your temper, see?” 

Mark could not help smiling, faintly, the other 
was so deeply in earnest. “Perhaps thou art right 
—thou and ‘the parsons’—I had not thought of that. 
But I sadly fear that I could not keep mine, in such 
a case, for I am quick to wrath, as thou hast ob¬ 
served, although I belong to the Society of Friends. 
In truth, I fear that there is that within my heart 
which would cause me sinfully to delight in such 
contests of strength, and ...” 

“Sure yuh would! Sure yuh’d like it!” 

“And therefore the more reason for my refusing 
to engage in it. Nay, ‘get thee behind me, Satan.’ ” 

The Bull sighed, prodigiously. “Oh, . . . thun- 



50 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


der! Well, you’re your own boss, I s’pose. If 
yuh won’t, yuh won’t—and ‘that’s that,’ as Half # 
Nelson ustuh say. Yuh may be a Quaker but 
you’re as mulish as a Britisher! But it’s a crime, 
I’m tellin’ yuh. You’re buryin' your talents in a 
tablecloth, as somebody—who was it?—said.” 

Mark made no answer, but turned to bend over 
the disabled motor and begin his task of setting it 
to functioning again. The Bull leaned curiously 
over one of his shoulders, and after a minute Flash 
took his place on the other side, after lighting a 
fresh cigarette with hands which were not altogether 
steady. His show of bravado was obviously for his 
companion’s benefit, but he was very careful to 
blow the smoke away from Mark. 

Completely absorbed in his work and almost un¬ 
conscious of the other two’s presence, the laborer 
shortly began to follow his custom and sing as he 
worked, subconsciously selecting the appropriate 
hymn, “Blest be the Tie that Binds.” His voice 
was fresh and pleasing, and he sang lustily. After 
a moment of astonished listening, Flash winked at 
the Bull, behind Mark’s bent back, and started in 
competition a popular number, the refrain of which 
began with the unconventional words, “Oh, by gee, 
by gosh, by gum, by Jove.” At first it was little 
more than a quavering breath, but as nothing hap¬ 
pened he sang out with more confidence, retreating 
out of the reach of his rival singer’s arms, how¬ 
ever. The Bull grinned. 



AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 


51 


The sense of the song, and its intent, at length 
penetrated into Mark’s mind. He stopped and 
glanced up, both angry and shocked. But instead 
of rebuking the singer, either verbally or physically, 
he compressed his lips into a straight line, indicative 
of his conscious effort toward self-restraint, and con¬ 
tinued his work. 

“ ‘O by Jingo said by gosh by gee,’ ” chanted 
Flash, airily. He might have been singing to the 
high heavens or merely for his own amusement, so 
innocent did he appear. When he had completed 
the refrain he promptly began it anew, and Mark, 
forcing himself to work on as though he did not 
hear, suddenly realized that he was softly whis¬ 
tling through his teeth in unison with the singer the 
ragtime song with its jingling melody and catchy 
rhythm. He instantly checked himself, feeling a 
flush of mortification and anger creeping into his 
cheeks. The challenge was too much. He resumed 
his hymn in a voice so stentorian that his rival’s 
breathy tenor was completely drowned out. 

Vastly amused, Durham gave vent to a huge 
chuckle. He sensed and appreciated Mark’s self- 
restraint under a type of provocation which was 
familiar enough to him. Flash constantly took ad¬ 
vantage of his physical inferiority to act the bully, 
and the Quaker’s victory was delightful. This time 
he had not used those brawny arms, beneath the skin 
of which the sinews rippled like whipcords. He had 
discarded his coat, and they stood out, sharply de- 



52 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


fined, through the thin cotton shirt now stretched 
taut over his broad shoulders. Twice the Bull 
shook his massive head; once he muttered, “It’s 
a cryin’ shame; a cryin’ shame!” 

It is odd how men in every walk of life by in¬ 
stinct appraise others of their kind, jealously, admir¬ 
ingly or merely curiously. Let one opera singer 
hear another, and he must hum the climax note to 
find out if he could not produce one higher—or 
lower; the speaker listen critically to the speaker 
and wonder if he could not, perhaps, have bettered 
a well-turned phrase; the athlete view another ath¬ 
lete’s muscular form and speculate whether or not 
he could not out-run or out-lift him. So with the 
Bull, now. Mark’s muscles held a wordless chal¬ 
lenge for him. He was curious to know what the 
youth would do if subjected to any particular one 
of the scientific holds which comprise a wrestler’s 
system of attack. Of course he would be utterly 
lacking in knowledge of the theoretical defenses, 
but he was nearly as big as himself, perhaps fully 
as strong; and he was lithe and young. Educated 
in “the tricks of the trade,” what a training part¬ 
ner he would make! The Bull’s engagement on the 
previous night had been a perfunctory and easy one, 
and even the long ride had not wearied him. Now 
his fingers itched to grapple with Mark. He wanted 
to try out his strength and his mettle alike. 

Suddenly his homely face brightened and took 
on a look which was almost mischievous. 



AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 53 


“Say, kid,” he began, “Tell yuh what I’ll do, 
jest for the fun of it. There’s a nice, smooth bit 
of turf, here, and I’ll learn yuh two or three wras- 
tlin’ holds, free gratis fer nothin’. They might 
come in handy, sometime. Yuh never can tell. 
And most guys pay real money tuh learn ’em,” he 
added, significantly. 

“Nay.” Mark smiled a little, but did not raise 
his head. 

“Aw, c’mon! There ain’t no harm in it; it’s 
jest foolin’. C’mon. I bet I can put yuh flat on 
your back in less’n half a minute. Get out your 
watch, Flash.” 

Mark involuntarily straightened up. The taunt 
brought with it that swift and inexplicable quiver 
in his nerves; the involuntary flexing of his muscles. 
Restraint cost him an effort, but he succeeded in 
smiling frankly and replied, “Nay, I say. I wish 
for no lessons in fighting—yea, wrestling is but a 
form of fighting. Rather I have need to learn how 
to avoid contention. It is a temptation to which I 
yield all too easily. Besides, thou knowest that I 
do not bet.” 

The other sensed the effect of his words and his 
advantage. “Then I jest tell yuh that I can do it. 
You think you’re pretty beefy, but brains is what 
counts, and I can prove it. C’mon; be a sport.” 

As he spoke, the Bull began playfully to push 
Mark towards the strip of spring greensward beside 
the water trough. Still retaining his good-nature, 





54 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


the other only half-resisted, but the “feel” of the 
wrestler’s mighty muscles in their play against his 
breast caused his own to tingle and beg for per¬ 
mission to exert themselves in opposition. 

“I cannot, Friend, as I have thrice told thee,” he 
protested. “Besides, thou art wasting my time.” 

“Aw, charge that on the bill, too. I’m payin’, 
to-day. Look. Here’s a trick worth knowin’, in a 
pinch.” 

With a quickness which was nothing less than 
amazing in one so bulky, the Bull bent over, and 
thrust one huge arm between Mark’s legs, planted 
slightly apart in his effort to resist the other’s shov¬ 
ing. With his shoulder as a fulcrum he heaved 
upward, meanwhile grasping one of the youth’s 
wrists with his free hand, and pulling his arm 
sharply downward and forward. To Mark’s chok¬ 
ing consternation and astonishment he instantly 
found himself upside down and sliding headfirst 
down the wrestler’s back. In another fraction of a 
second he was viewing a topsy-turvy world through 
the Bull’s pedestal legs, while his own were held on 
high in a grip like iron. 

Gravity, as well as sudden passion aroused by the 
trick, caused the blood to rush to his head. The 
misty red veil was spread before his sight, and he 
flung his own strong arms about the other’s calves 
so fiercely that the Bull was thrown off his bal¬ 
ance. With a thud the two went to the earth, to¬ 
gether. 



AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 55 


The jar took Mark's breath away, for an instant, 
but he heard a shrill "‘Yah,” in Flash’s voice, and the 
words, ‘‘Now yuh got him, Bull. Flop! Give him 
the scissors! Give him the toe-hold.” 

The words meant nothing to him until they were 
translated into lightning-like action by his adver¬ 
sary. The fall had partially loosened the hold of 
each. Now the Bull twisted wholly free and flung 
himself over onto Mark. His tremendous legs 
closed and locked about the Quaker’s neck and in¬ 
stantly began to contract with crushing force. They 
shut off his wind; his head felt as though it were 
being ground between an upper and nether millstone; 
there was a roaring in his ears. It did not seem 
possible—such applied power in a human frame. 
Mark struggled with all his strength, twisting, writh¬ 
ing. The next instant one of his feet was seized in 
both the wrestler’s huge hands and twisted sidewise. 
The pain was excruciating. 

Then, as quickly, he was free. Through a mist 
of pain-drawn tears he looked at the Bull, who was 
sitting beside him and now almost doubled up with 
laughter. Mark felt himself in the grip of a pas¬ 
sion such as he had never dreamed of. That mo¬ 
ment he could have killed the stranger. 

“See. That’s jest a little sample of my line of 
goods, kid, but it’s a trick worth knowin’, now ain’t 
it? The scissors and toe-hold, used together or 
separately, have caused the down-fall of many a 
good man, me included. Say, you ain’t mad, are 



56 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


yuh? I was jest foolin’; I didn’t mean to hurt 
yuh.” There was sudden dismay and real pain in 
the Bull’s voice. 

Mark, pale of face and with his now deeply seated 
wrath making his speech thick and strange to his 
own ears, panted out his answer, as he got unsteadily 
to his feet. “Nay, thou didst not hurt me, blast 
thee. And thou canst not do that again!” 

With fists clinched and arms rigid at his sides, he 
stood, leaning forward and swaying slightly. His 
jaw protruded and his gray eyes, over which his 
hair had fallen, burned and bored straight into those 
of the Bull, where concern dwelt. 

“Steady, kid! Honest, I was only foolin’— 
’though maybe I got a bit rough. You was usin’ 
some strength yourself, yuh know. I’ll say you're 
game; yuh got fightin’ qualities. But you ought¬ 
n’t tuh. get mad. Don’t forget what I told yuh. 
Always keep your temper. When there’s blood in 
your eye yuh can't see straight.” 

Mark succeeded in laughing, although the sound 
was strange to his own ears. He dashed the lock 
of hair back, and smiled grimly; the blood still ran 
like liquid fire through his veins. “I ... I am 
not angry . . . now,” he answered, and knew that 
he was speaking falsely. “I am not angry, but 
. . . thou canst not do that again.” 

“Maybe not; maybe so. But I ain’t likely tuh 
try it. A wrastler that uses the same trick twicet in 
succession is a nut. C’mon, if yuh like. I told yuh 



AN UNSOUGHT LESSON 57 


I’d learn you a few things and there’s no time like 
the present, as the feller said.” 

The Bull, too, had risen. He now stood facing 
Mark, his feet planted widely apart—like a Colossus 
of Rhodes—his body bent forward, with arms 
swinging loosely. Mark “came” ! He lurched for¬ 
ward like a human catapault. They clinched and 
remained for a moment, breast to breast, swaying 
a little from side to side but neither giving an inch 

of ground. Theirs was the inertia of equal forces 

« 

adversely applied. Flash viewed them with lips 
drawn back from his yellow teeth in a grin that was 
half snarl. He was like a fox watching two fight¬ 
ing bears. 

Suddenly the Bull collapsed, falling backwards and 
giving Mark a violent jerk. Completely taken oft* 
his guard, the Quaker shot through the air over the 
recumbent body of his adversary, and fell prone and 
sprawling. Renewed anger and deep mortification 
alike filled his heart; and his mouth was full of 
young grass and loam. He spat it out, and run¬ 
ning his tongue over his dry lip realized that it 
was cut. There was the slightly saline taste of 
blood in his mouth. 

Again the fall had broken their mutual grasp 
and Mark scrambled hurriedly to his feet and 
wheeled about to meet the next attack. Nothing 
happened. To his surprise he saw, through angry 
eyes, a ludicrous sight. Panting just a little from 
his latest exertion, the Bull had instinctively fallen 



58 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 

" "" " " " " —. . 1 -- - "I- ' 

into his favorite posture of defense. He was rest¬ 
ing on wide-spread knees and elbows; his hands 
locked on his wrists, back humped up and head 
dropped so low that it was scarcely to be seen be¬ 
neath the muscles of his neck which bulged out 
over his silken collar. He looked more than ever 
like some mammoth frog, or a turtle. But Mark 
did not then see the humor in the spectacle, nor pause 
to consider the why of the wrestler’s posture. With 
a cry he leaped upon him, astride his waist, encir¬ 
cling his thick chest with both arms and tugged and 
strained with all his might. Scarcely an inch could 
he move the Bull. 

At last he lifted his head and shook the hair back 
from before his eyes—only to find himself looking 
directly into the horrified faces of the smith and 
Dyer Dexter, who had returned from the latter’s 
store with some bolts for the new shafts. 




CHAPTER VI 


DOMESTIC SERIO-COMEDY 

“David! David, where art thou?” 

Standing on the side porch of her farm home, 
in the checker of sun and shadow as the light sifted 
through the rose-covered trellis, Faith made a pic¬ 
ture of sweet young womanhood worthy the brush 
of a Raphael. The Quaker calm which softly il¬ 
lumined her face, and the simple garb, gave her 
a look suggesting the mild and lovely Madonnas, 
but there was nothing nunlike about the fresh bloom 
of her cheeks. Faith was all woman; akin to the 
angels in purity of soul which shone out through her 
eyes, but sweetly mortal nevertheless. Not a rad¬ 
iant beauty, but a lovely girl whose charm was now 
enhanced by the faint violet shadows of concern 
in her expressive eyes. 

A basin of soapy water stood at her side and she 
wiped her hands with the towel, which had just im¬ 
parted an extra glow to the rosy cheeks of little 
Hope, as she looked gardenward for the truant 
David. Again she sent her call out on the soft 
spring air. Her voice was low-pitched and pleasing, 
but now it was touched with a barest trace of 


annoyance. 


59 


60 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Yea, sister Faith. I am coming, I'm hurry- 

* J) 

m g. 

Scarcely suiting his action to the word, David 
now appeared out of the fringe of a little grove 
near by, a home-made sling in his right hand making 
rapid circles in the air. As he approached, lag- 
gardly, well knowing what was in store, his sister 
continued, “Come quickly, David, if thou wishest to 
accompany me to the village. Why hast thou not 
been helping Friend Jeremiah weed the garden, as I 
bade thee? Where hast thou been, and what hast 
thou in thy hand?” 

By this time the lad had reached the porch step 
and he proudly displayed the home-made imple¬ 
ment which he had constructed with two pieces of 
twine and a bit of leather from an old harness. 

“See,” he explained. “I made it, although 
Jeremiah showed me how. It’s a sling-shot, sister 
Faith—like the one the psalmist David used to slay 
the Philistines with. Thou placest a stone here, in 
the leather, like this. Then ...” 

The boy made several violent revolutions with 
his weapon of primitive warfare, let loose one of 
the string ends, and away shot the missile at a wild 
tangent, clipping the tail-feathers of the vain-glori¬ 
ous cockerel that was lording it over his busy harem 
near by. The rooster gave a frightened squawk 
and fled, half running, half flying. It was hard 
to say whether he were creature of the earth or 
air. With a wail, Hope started in pursuit, calling 



DOMESTIC SERIO-COMEDY 61 


back over her shoulder, “Naughty, naughty David. 
I hate thee.” 

“David! See what thou hast done! Have I not 
told thee, times without number, that we are for¬ 
bidden to use weapons of destruction? What does 
the Bible say about him who taketh the sword ?” 

“I ... I have forgotten. But I know that it 
sayeth, ‘Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who 
teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight/ ” 
quoted the lad, triumphantly, having been recently 
coached in the verse by one who worshiped the 
ground that Faith trod upon, yet was constantly 
troubling her soul with his mischief-making pro¬ 
clivities. 

Years before, when she had been the age of little 
Hope, Jeremiah Jones, hoboing it along the dusty 
road passed the Franklin farm, and had paused to 
beg a drink of spring water from her father, “in the 
name of Christ.” In his burning eyes and shrunken 
cheeks, deathly white save for two crimson patches 
above the stubby beard, the kindly Quaker had read 
the signs of destroying fever. He had taken him 
in, this Philistine whose incoherent ravings, while 
the desperate illness lasted, had been a strangely 
mixed jargon of the farm and city’s slums. They 
knew not whence he came or what his life had been 
before, but it made no difference to them. Faith’s 
gentle father and mother, true salt of the earth, 
would have taken in a stray dog and cared for him 
just as tenderly. When the strange wayfarer with 



62 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the prophet’s name was well again, they would have 
sent him on his way with their—and God’s—bles¬ 
sing. But he would have none of it. Perhaps his 
motive was a mixed one—whose is not ? At least it 
is fair to say that their kindness, the like of which he 
had never known in all his life, uncovered a strain 
of doglike gratitude in the thin breast of Jeremiah. 
From that moment he was their slave, although a 
lazy one. Even if they had wished to drive him 
away from their doors it is doubtful if they could 
have done so. 

He preempted for himself the bam loft and made 
a room of it, to which he always returned, repen- 
tent and truly ashamed, after each attack of the old 
wanderlust which occasionally lured him away for 
days and even weeks at a time. Thus, year after 
year, Jeremiah Jones had lived with and served the 
Franklyn family for his board, such cast-off cloth¬ 
ing as fell to his lot, and the pittance which they 
could pay him. He would undoubtedly have served 
with equal willingness had they been able to pay him 
nothing. After the death of Faith’s parents—three 
years previous when she was but seventeen—he had 
stayed on, more devoted than ever, her ragged 
knight. Without his aid, indeed, she would have 
been utterly unable to have fought the good fight 
and kept her little family together. Responsibility 
had improved the man, and his falls from grace had 
been infrequent after Mr. Franklyn’s death. 

Perhaps the old fire which will not let the hobo 



DOMESTIC SERIO-COMEDY 63 


rest, was burning out, for he was now well past 
middle-life, and becoming set in his ways. He was 
still scrawny and somewhat bent, with eyes which 
were near-sighted and watery, sunken cheeks and a 
hooked nose set slightly askew on his face. Nor 
did he appear to be over-clean, as a general thing; 
yet a strange out-cropping of the vanity which abides 
in the heart of every man, no matter how low his 
station in the social scale, caused him to cover his 
almost naked poll with an ill-fitting wig, deep seal 
brown in color, although his beard was almost white. 
Beard ? It was rather an uneven stubble which was 
never removed, yet never seemed to grow beyond 
the half-inch limit. 

At first the presence of this bit of human flot¬ 
sam in the homogeneous village had given rise to 
much adverse criticism of Friend Daniel Franklyn, 
despite the clear Biblical sanction, nay, injunction. 
But in time Jeremiah had been accepted as a fix¬ 
ture in Content, and his vagaries, although oft the 
subject of shocked comment among the Quakers, 
frequently secretly amused them. And many a child 
had been repeatedly punished for spending hour 
upon hour listening eagerly to his never-ending 
stories, for he was as prolific in the making of 
strange tales as Scheherazade of the Thousand and 
One Nights. 

He had never made an effort to become one of the 
Friends, although sometimes he slipped unobtru¬ 
sively into the Meeting House on a Sabbath, to sit, 



04 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


silent with the rest, an amused expression on his 
odd face. Yet he was not without knowledge of the 
Bible. Friend Daniel had given him one, early in 
his stay, and he read it assiduously, if painfully. 
Not always from the highest motives, it must be 
admitted, but rather to discover portions which 
might be quoted to Quaker discomfiture. Thus 
he had taught David, when he was barely able to 
talk, one verse which the child recited gleefully dur¬ 
ing a gathering for Scripture reading and prayer at 
the Franklyn homestead; “Drink no longer water, 
but use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake, and for 
thine often infirmities.” And the dwellers in Con¬ 
tent were strict prohibitionists, even in those days! 

Faith had no difficulty in surmising the source 
of David’s disturbing quotation, now. But before 
she could think of the proper manner of correcting 
him, he went on, “It was the Bible David, who used 
the sling-shot to kill the giant, Goliath, before he 
cut off his head, that said it, I think. Anyway, 
Jeremiah saith that he was some scrapper. And I 
mean to be one, too, when I grow up.” 

“Nay, thou dost not know what thou art saying. 
Oh, I shall of a verity have to let Jeremiah go, if 
he continueth to teach thee, and thy sister Hope, 
things like that. Though I know not how I can 
manage without him.” 

“But it is true; it is in The Book,” protested the 
boy. 

“I know, David. There are many things in the 



DOMESTIC SERIO-COMEDY 65 


Bible which we must not take literally, but rather 
to teach us a lesson. Jeremiah did not tell thee all 
the story of David. Later he was very, very sorry 
that he had been a man of war. Because his hands 
were stained with blood the Lord would not let him 
have his wish, and build the great temple at Jeru¬ 
salem. So, thou seest, he was punished because of 
his sin—as we all must be, if we do wrong. And 
fighting is a sin; war is a sin. The gentle Savior 
taught us that, and we, who bear the name of 
Friends, try to follow in His footsteps.” 

“Yea, I suppose so. Perhaps I shall not be a 
warrior, sister Faith, but if I practice a long while 
with my sling-shot I can use it to protect thee with.” 

“Thank thee, dear. But I do not need to be pro¬ 
tected. Who would hurt me ?” 

“I don’t know, exactly. May be there are still 
some bears in the woods—Jeremiah says that there 
are—or some Indians might come back from the 
west.” 

“Nay, there is no fear from bears or Indians. 
Thou art much more likely to kill some of oui 
chickens—which we can ill afford to lose—as thou 
hast just nearly done. Besides, we should love all 
dumb creatures.” 

“Even skonks and snakes, sister Faith? Jere¬ 
miah saith ...” 

The girl started a little, and hastily concealed a 
budding smile. “Yea, even skunks and snakes. 
God made them. It is perhaps as well to love them 



66 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


at a distance, but at least we should not injure them 
needlessly. I want thee to grow up kind to all 
created things, man and beast alike, and it hurts 
me to hear thee talking about fighting and killing, 
David.” 

“Then I won’t, sister Faith. I won’t talk about 
them and I’ll try not to think about them . . . much. 
Is ... is wrastling, fighting?” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps not. Why dost thou 
ask ?” 

“Jeremiah hath been showing me and some of the 
other boys how to wrastle, and he told us all about 
the wonderful stunts a wrastler did, that he saw in 
the big city—the time he went away and stayed 
’most a week. Dost thou remember?” 

“Of a surety I do.” Faith’s lips assumed an un¬ 
compromising straight line, but the boy did not ob¬ 
serve it, and continued, eagerly, “He saith that the 
wrastler was a reg’lar Bull . . . that was his name, 
too, I think. Anyway, he was terribly strong. He 
could throw a ... a guy quicker’n blazes . . . 
Jeremiah said the word, I’m just telling thee. And 
hundreds and hundreds of people go to watch him 
do it, and pay money. Jeremiah did; he sat up in 
the . . . some sort of a nut gallery. Gee, . . . 
I mean . . . Well, anyway I’d like to be strong 
like that, and wrastle. If it isn’t wicked.” 

“I’m afraid that that kind of wrestling is—very 
wicked. Oh, David, what am I going to do with 
thee, and Jeremiah? He putteth such thoughts in 



DOMESTIC SEKIO-COMEDY 67 


thy receptive mind. Just now thou saidest ‘G’ which 
is again akin to profanity, for it is the initial of 
God. And thou stopped thyself, showing that thou 
knewest it to be wrong.” 

“Yea, I am sorry, again, sister Faith. I told 
him what thou saidest about . . . about that other 
word, and he said, ‘Faith is right Dave. She’s al¬ 
ways right. I won’t use that word any more, 
danged if I do.’ ” 

Hope had returned, carrying the immense rooster 
tucked under one chubby arm, and she now broke 
into the conversation with, “What ith ‘danged,’ 
thithter Faith? Jeremiah ith danged, lots of 
times.” 

“Oh, dear. I don’t know what it is! But it 
doth not sound very nice, doth it? I wouldn’t 
ever be ... be danged, if I were thee. But come, 
David. Thou hast not yet told me why thou wert 
not helping Jeremiah to weed the garden as I bade 
thee? He wasteth his time telling thee stories and 
teaching thee to wrestle; thou, spendest thine making 
sling-shots; but the weeds take none off from grow¬ 
ing and they are even now choking out the vegeta¬ 
bles, which we must sell to live. Sometimes I 
scarcely know where the morrow’s meals are com¬ 
ing from, and at the best it is terribly hard to make 
both ends meet without a real man on the farm. 
We are poor, David. We have almost nothing— 
but each other.” 

“But why do we have to be poor, like that ? Any- 



68 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


way thou art not wicked, that God should hate 
thee,” cried the boy. 

“He doth not hate any of his children. Thou 
must not speak like that.” 

“Then why are we poor when Friend Dyer Dex¬ 
ter is rich. He is, everybody saith so; and stingy, 
too. He’s a rich old miser—Jeremiah ...” 

“Oh, please don’t be all the time repeating what 
Friend Jeremiah saith. Friend Dyer is a good man; 
a just man, David.” 

“He is a ‘sanctimonious cuss,’ Je . . . somebody 
said. He’s all the time talking about the Scripture 
but he never read the verse ‘the greatest of these is 
charity.’ Why did he skip that one, sister Faith? 
I should think ...” 

“Of course he hath read it. Who told thee that ? 
Nay, I know.” 

“Then if he hath, dost thou not suppose that he 
would give thee some of his money if thou shouldst 
ask him?” 

His sister felt herself flushing swiftly, and turned 
away so that even his boyishly inquisitive eyes should 
not notice her confusion. 

“Wouldn’t he?” David persisted. 

“I ... I do not know. At least, I am not sure. 
And why should he? We do not want his money. 
We do not want anybody’s charity, do we, Davie? 
Isn’t it much nicer to be independent, even if we 
are poor?” 

“Well, maybe. Please don’t look as though thou 



DOMESTIC SEBIO-COMEDY 69 


wert going to cry, sister Faith. I don’t want any 
of his old money, anyway. I mean to make a lot, 
for thee, when I grow up. That’s one reason I 
thought I’d sort of like to be a wrastler, like the 
bull man. Then we could have a big automobile, 
like the one that went whizzing past this morning, 
to carry our vegetables to Friend Dyer Dexter’s 
store in the village—a bright red one like that,” an¬ 
nounced David, his eyes glowing. 

“I’d rather have a blue one,” Hope interposed. 

Faith smiled again. “We’ll decide on the color 
when we get it. I am afraid it is sinful to set thy 
little heart on a worldly luxury like a motor car, but 
perhaps it will help thee to weed better. For we 
must all work, David. Mankind was commanded 
to till the soil and earn his bread by the sweat of his 
brow. And even little men, like thee, should learn 
how to labor, for it maketh thee, strong, surely as 
well as wrestling doth. Look at thy big Friend 
Mark! How strong he is, and yet he doth not 
wrestle.” (If she might only have seen him a few 
moments previous!) “Oh, it is a fine thing to work, 
cheerfully, and earn for ourselves the simple things 
which our bodies need. There is surely nothing 
nobler on earth.” 

“Well, perhaps so. I like to work for thee. But 
I like to play, for myself, sometimes. Jeremiah 
saith that all work and no play makes Jack a dull 
boy. Thou wouldst not like to have me that, sister 
Faith.” 



70 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Nay.” The girl sighed. “But it is like play for 
thee to drive to the village and watch the sparks in 
the smithy, so come and wash thy face and hands 
clean, that’s a good boy. David! Clean, I said. 
Thou hast not touched thine ears. Look at thy little 
sister, as fresh and spotless as a little rose-bud after 
a rain.” 

“Aw, but girls like to be washed,” rebelled the lad. 

“Nay. Thou art telling an untruth, Davie,” an¬ 
swered Hope, in flat contradiction. “I do not like to 
be wathed—but! I like to be clean. Dirt ith nathty.” 

“Then we’re all nasty, for the Bible sayeth that 
God made man out of . . . Faith. Thou art get¬ 
ting the soap into my eyes. Ouch! it stings!” 

David broke free from his sister’s grasp, and ran, 
half blinded by the lye in the home-made soap, 
down the drivewav towards the road. 

With her plain gray skirt held high, to give free 
play to her shapely limbs, Faith gave chase, for the 
moment more girl than woman. Simultaneously 
the pair reached the gate—just as the Bull’s auto¬ 
mobile appeared around a turn in the highway, only 
a few yards distant. 



CHAPTER VII 


REACTIONS 

During the quarter hour in which the foregoing 
little domestic drama—mild comedy with its hint 
of pathos—was being enacted at the Franklyn home¬ 
stead, the situation at the smithy had undergone 
another quick change. 

At the startling reappearance of John Gray and 
Dyer Dexter, with amazement and wrath written 
plainly on their countenances, Mark’s grasp on the 
wrestler immediately relaxed. His position was not 
one from which he could retire with grace, and he 
stumbled awkwardly to his feet and stood with his 
eyes bent towards the ground and hands clasped and 
working nervously. He was still panting, dishev¬ 
eled, shamefaced. 

Mark was in a most distressful situation. Shame 
contended with anger at himself, the stranger, and 
Friend Dyer, in whose eyes he had caught a momen¬ 
tary gleam that was actually triumphant, with no 
attempt at dissembling. His oft-made prophecy 
that this youth would surely come to some bad end 
seemed on the way to swift fulfillment. Within a 
brief half hour Mark Gray had first openly made 
friends with a professional wrestler who had gained 

71 


72 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the odium of the whole village, and then fallen to 
fighting with him! He did not wait for the lad’s 
explanation—perhaps he did not wish to hear it. 
Was not the matter plain, on the face of it ? Had 
he not with his own eyes seen Mark—his face cov¬ 
ered with blood and dirt, his clothes soiled—assault¬ 
ing the stranger; pummeling him, when he was 
down? 

Here was a choice morsel of gossip! And, 
whether little David’s quoted characterization of 
him were deserved or not, Dyer Dexter was always 
glad to share such a possession, at least. He was 
not at all a deep-dyed villain; far from it. Indeed, 
he undoubtedly regarded himself as a man of im¬ 
peachable character. Certainly he kept the ten com¬ 
mandments to the letter. The eleventh is less literal, 
and what constitutes compliance with it is more or 
less a matter of personal judgment. Nor was he 
without provocation in his attitude towards Mark. 
The latter had, as a boy, singled him out as the vic¬ 
tim of most of his venial pranks, with a boy’s in¬ 
stinct for making game of one who lacks good sports¬ 
manship. And now he had another cause of griev¬ 
ance against him. Perhaps it is too much to say that 
the repressed, dried-up man of sixty was in love 
with Faith, but at least he had decided that he de¬ 
sired her for his wife. A number of sound consid¬ 
erations entered into that desire. He was cautious; 
he had not yet actually declared himself, but he had 
made several preliminary overtures. Mark was not 



REACTIONS 


73 


openly Faith’s suitor, but the calculating mind of the 
older man recognized in him a dangerous rival. 
Business was business, and if the youth elected to 
behave in such a manner as to remove himself from 
the race, that was his look-out. 

Dexter abruptly turned his straight, censorious 
back on the group and walked storewards again. 

Still on hands and knees, the Bull raised his 
head and took in the picture, while a sheepish 
grin appeared on his face and spread until it 
threatened to bisect it. With the agility of a gym¬ 
nast he sprang to his feet and exclaimed, boister¬ 
ously, “ ’Sail right, old timer. The boy ain’t tuh 
blame, and he wasn’t fightin’. Nothin’ like that! 
We was just havin’ a sorter friendly wrastle, me 
havin’ tricked him intuh it, tuh try out his muscle 
and his metal. Say, he’s a bear; he’s game, I’m 
tellin’ yuh. Y’ ought tuh be proud of him.” 

John Gray paid no attention whatsoever to the 
speaker’s remarks. His expression had changed 
from amazement, through pain, to cold severity. 
“Mark,” he said, “What is the meaning of this?” 

“It is even as Mr. Bull ... I mean ‘Mr. Dur¬ 
ham,’ hath said, father. At least his explanation 
was true in part. But it was not he who tempted 
me to engage in contention, but rather Satan within 
my heart. I am sorry.” 

“Thou hast frequent cause to be sorry, and as¬ 
suredly now. Look at thy face; thine apparel! I 
am thankful that thou hast not been quarreling in 



74 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


anger, but art thou then still an unruly boy to be 
wasting thy time—and mine—and injuring thy 
clothing in a silly, nay, wicked sport? I cannot 
understand thee!” 

"‘Nor I understand myself, father. Verily, I 
have sinned in a grievous manner,” answered Mark, 
deeply penitent. 

“Aw, hell! The boy ain’t no sinner—that’s plain 
tommyrot; beggin’ your pardon. He couldn’t do 
nothin’ else, I tell yuh; I pitched intuh him and he 
had tuh defend himself, didn’t he?” protested the 
wrestler. 

“Nay, he did not! Thine interference is kindly 
meant, no doubt, but it is not needed or desired. 
Mark hath sinned, as he sayeth. Moreover, he is a 
wastrel.” 

“If you’re worryin’ yourself sick over the time 
he took off, yuh can charge that on the bill, too,” 
the Bull growled. 

“I shall do nothing of the sort. It shall be 
taken from his wages as a minor punishment; his 
own conscience will scourge him enough in addi¬ 
tion, I doubt not, as thine own should thee; for 
thy conduct is as evil as it is inexplicable to me.” 

“Don’t make me laff, my lip hurts,” answered the 
other, sarcastically, but he looked a little abashed. 
“Such a fuss over a little friendly wrastlin’ match! 
Can yuh beat it, Flash, I ask yuh?” 

His satellite laughed loudly. 

With lips sternly compressed, the smith set to 



REACTIONS 


75 


work on the broken shafts. Mark, after brushing 
the surface soil from his clothing and washing his 
face at the pump, returned to his own labors. Mr. 
Durham shrugged his herculean shoulders and 
went, sulkily, to resume his seat on the step of the 
machine, from which lowly rostrum he contin¬ 
ued his remarks in a belligerently argumentative 
tone. 

“‘Sinned.’ Huh! It’s a sin tuh keep the boy 
here in this dead hole, I say. A sinful waste of 
good material. He might be gettin’ double-leaded 
headlines on the sportin' page, and makin’ more 
money in a week than you do in a year. Jest let 
a guy like me train him fer a few months, and 
add a few wrastlin’ tricks to his strength and speed, 
and he’d clean up. He’d be puttin’ my shoulders 
to the mat, two times outuh three, or I’m a liar.” 

"Yes he would!” snorted Flash, who with all his 
faults was a staunch partisan. 

“I’m tellin’ yuh,” the other responded, stub¬ 
bornly, and he continued to aim further grumbling 
remarks at John Gray’s expansive back, while 
Flash continued to inhale the smoke of cheap 
Turkish cigarettes, and Mark to work, soberly and 
efficiently. 

“There, it is finished, I think," announced the 
young Quaker at length, as he swung a long leg 
over the side and slid into the driver’s seat. “It 
should bear thee to the city, at least, where it would 
be well for thee to have the motor thoroughly 



76 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


overhauled, for it appeareth to have received no 
attention of late.” 

“ 'Of late ?’ Thunder, it never did. I don’t 
know no more about machinery than the dago 
that the Irishman called down, when he was made 
boss of the construction gang fer a day. Know 
the story? He saw an Eyetalian pickin’ up a 
wheelbarrow, and yelled at him, 'Hey, youse! 
Put thot barrer down. What the hell d ’you know 
about machinery?’ ” 

Mark felt a little twitching at the comers of 
his lips, but he sternly conquered it, the more 
readily because the smith had turned as though 
to launch a new rebuke at the story-teller. To 
cover it up, Mark started the engine and let it 
race with cut-out open. It roared, but unevenly, 
and he shook his head, saying, “I like not that 
sound. One of the cylinders is skipping, but it 
will go, I think. Dost thou mind if I ride with thee 
a little distance and further test it, although I 
doubt if there is anything more that I can do?” 

"Mind? Gosh, no. Make it all the way tuh 
Philly, if yuh like. Oh, you ain't got no license 
tuh look worried,” he hastily added, addressing the 
smith. "I ain’t been able tuh persuade him tuh 
leave his happy home, and he’s showed me that I 
couldn’t force him to. Take a back seat, fer a 
change, Flash. We’ve got a new chuffer. Well, 
what’s the bad news, brother? Remember I’m a 
poor man.” He was again speaking to John 



REACTIONS 


77 


Gray, at the same time pulling from his trouser 
pocket a roll of bills so bulky that it made Mark 
gasp. 

With the fewest possible words on the part of 
the smith the business end of the morning’s affair 
was completed, and the wrestler climbed into the 
seat beside Mark. 

“I am going but a little way, father, and I shall 
return in a few moments.” 

The youth meant it, then, implicitly. His con¬ 
science was scourging him bitterly, and he was 
sore at heart. For his soul’s sake and to remove, 
if possible, some of his father’s hurt and right¬ 
eous indignation over his inexcusable behavior, 
he meant to labor as he never had before—and 
Mark was no shirker. Satan should not again 
find his hands or brain idle and ripe for mis¬ 
chief ! 

John Gray did not respond, but strode majesti¬ 
cally into the shop. 

“He might at least have answered,” thought 
Mark, and a quick wave of irritation swept over 
him, for the moment covering up his distress. After 
all, what had he really done to make him an object 
of Dyer Dexter’s scorn; his father’s severe disap¬ 
probation? Truth was he had been badgered into 
the wrestling match, which was a trivial transgres¬ 
sion at the most. And he had not hidden behind 
the Bull’s generous assumption of all the blame; 
instead he had rather manfully acknowledged a 





78 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


fault which scarcely existed. Mark began to feel 
himself abused. 

With a jerk he engaged the clutch and simul¬ 
taneously thrust the accelerator down with an im¬ 
patient foot. The engine roared like an airplane’s. 
The big car fairly leaped forward out of the yard, 
and was almost across the highway and into the fence 
again before he realized what was happening. He 
barely made the right-angle turn in time by pulling 
the steering wheel sharply over, and the machine 
skidded dangerously near the ditch. The sound of 
the abrupt departure and the wrestler’s shout 
brought John Gray to the door of the smithy, and 
he shook his head, almost despairingly. 

’’Don’t talk to me!” roared the Bull, as he set¬ 
tled back into his seat. “You’re some speed hound 
yourself, I’ll say. Go easy, kid. I want tuh get 
out of this joint without bein’ lynched.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Mark, as he brought the car 
down to fifteen miles an hour. “I did not know 
that she had such power.” 

“‘Power’? Say, she can hit ninety. Try ’er 
out, if you like. The road’s clear, and I was only 
foolin’ about goin’ slow.” 

“Nay, I shall not. Power is a dangerous thing 
and should be employed with caution, though I 
have no right to lecture thee,” he finished, with a 
trace of bitterness. 

“I’ll say you haven’t,” laughed the Bull. “My 
arm’s achin' me still, where yuh grabbed it, and 



REACTIONS 


79 


I ain’t exactly soft. Anyhow, there ain’t no sense 
in seein’ how slow you can make her go,” he 
added. 

“Ninety miles an hour.” As fast as the airplane 
he had read about and secretly yearned to try! 
How would it seem to go at such a pace, with the 
wind whistling past and the scenery a mere blur of 
green, the great machine eating up the white road 
more than a mile each minute? Mark’s foot 
fairly itched to press hard down on the accelerat¬ 
ing lever, and it was only by exercising the utmost 
in self-control that he kept the pace moderate. He 
succeeded. At a very Quakerlike rate of speed they 
passed between the clustered gray homes of the 
little village and down the road which ran like a 
ribbon insertion through the green velvet of the 
springtime fields. More and more isolated became 
the dwellings on either side. A mile; two miles 
were covered. 

Then, “Thy motor runneth sufficiently well, I 
think,” announced Mark. “So I must now leave 
thee, and return to my work.” 

His decision came at that particular point as a 
result of the fact that he had just at that instant 
caught sight of David, with Faith in swift pur¬ 
suit, heading from their farm house towards the 
road. 

“Leave us? Why, we’re goin’ right back past 
your place,” the owner exclaimed. 

“Nay, I thank thee, but I wish to walk and . . . 




80 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and think a little. I shall take a short cut, so that 
the distance is not far.” 

The car came to a stop, a few yards from the 
gate, just as the boy came to a stop against it and 
was clasped in the arms of the laughing Faith. 
David, his eyes still smarting from the home-made 
soap, struggled valiantly but in vain. 

The Bull’s laughter boomed out anew. “By the 
Lord ’Arry—as Half Nelson ustuh say—another 
Quaker wrastler in the makin’. Look at him 
squirm, though. Gosh, he’s off again.” The speaker 
slapped his mighty leg resoundingly and chuckled 
all over as David darted through the gate and 
headed towards them. Faith got as far as the road 
and stopped in confusion, rosily conscious of being 
under the close observation of Mark and two stran¬ 
gers while her arms were immodestly displayed and 
little tendrils of her hair, freed from its neat 
coiffure by her exertions, were blowing around her 
flushed cheeks and clinging to her moist forehead. 
Moreover she was holding her gray skirt well above 
her shapely, plain-stockinged ankles. She dropped 
it, hastily, and her eyes with it. 

“Some skoit!” ejaculated the wrestler in un¬ 
feigned admiration. Mark looked with astonish¬ 
ment first at the garment which was apparently the 
object of the speaker’s interest, then at the Bull 
himself. The real meaning contained within his 
metonymy dawned upon the Quaker, causing him to 
start and bring his hand down upon the wheel in 



REACTIONS 


81 


a smashing blow. The other started, in turn.* He 
saw the black wrath-clouds appearing on Mark’s 
brow and hastened to apologize with, “Figger of 
speech, son. No offense meant or taken, I hope, 
especially if the chic . . . the dame’s —'the girl’s 
what I'm tryin’ tuh say—is a friend of yours.” 

“She is,” responded Mark, shortly, not altogether 
mollified. 

“Bully fer you. You ought tuh move tuh the 
city and bring her along with yuh. It’s a cryin’ 
shame tuh waste a good-looker like that on the 
country, I say.” 

The sunshine of a little smile banished the last 
of the clouds from the lad’s countenance. He 
laughed, merrily, and the wrestler roared forth 
an echo, without knowing exactly why. “Verily, 
men who dwell in the city have strange ideas!” 
exclaimed Mark. “I have been taught to believe 
that cities are like cesspools, or festering sores 
upon the land, yet thou seemeth to think that no¬ 
where else should there be women that are fair or 
men that are . . . are strong. Hast thou then 
forgotten that the lilies, to which Solomon in all 
his glory was not to be compared, were of the 
fields, not of the towns?” 

“Maybe you’re right, kid. Guess I ought tuh 
know better, fer I was born on a farm, but the 
city kind of gets yuh, after a while. Perhaps I’d 
ought tuh amend my remarks and suggest that the 
city move out intuh the country,” the Bull answered. 



82 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Nay. Why spoil two places? And I fear that 
the two do not mix. Thy kind is not my kind. 
Our manner of living and of thought are as differ¬ 
ent, one from the other, as our speech—and thine, 
although thou callest it ‘American,’ I can scarce un¬ 
derstand at all, at times. Thou hast been inci¬ 
dental in causing me some pain this morning ...” 

“Gee, I’m sorry if I hurt yuh, kid,” interrupted 
the wrestler, but Mark smiled and went on, “ . . . 
Nay, not bodily pain—thou hast misunderstood 
me. But I bear thee no ill will. Indeed, I like 
thee, Friend. I know not why I should, but I do, 
of a verity.” 

“Good! That’s the talk. That makes it two of 
a kind, fer I’m strong fer you, boy. Put ’er 
there!” 

The late antagonists clasped hands heartily and 
the magnetic force of true friendliness flowed from 
one to the other at the contact. Mark faced 
around in his seat and offered his hand to Flash 
as well, but the other was busy lighting a fresh 
cigarette and feigned not to see him, and he turned 
back, a hurt expression on his face. 

“If thou thinkest of me, at all, please do not 
think too ill of me because of my harsh criticisms, 
Friend. I am afraid that I am young, and lack 
breadth of understanding,” Mark said, apologetic¬ 
ally. 

“Aw, ferget it! You’re all right—nothin’ the 
matter with you, kid. ’Course you’re young, but 



REACTIONS 


83 


Time’ll cure that, as the poet said. And who 
wouldn’t be kinder narrow, livin’ in a place like 
this, I ask you?” 

“It is my home. My ancestors have all lived 
here for generations. I was bred and born here— 
and I love it.” 

“Sure yuh do! It’s a peach of a place, and if I 
ever get done up and need a place tuh rest in I’m 
cornin’ back, see? A guy ought tuh be able tuh 
spend a nice quiet month in about a couple of 
days, here. Take that from one who lives in a 
town that the rest of the country calls ‘The City of 
the Dead/ Now, don’t get sore. I’m jest jokin’. 
If you ever get tuh Philly, look us up, and me 
and Flash’ll show yuh the town. Here’s my en¬ 
graved visitin’ card. You’ll find it an ‘open se- 
samy’ at the Central A. A., which is where I gen¬ 
erally hang out. Better let me drive yuh back 
home, kid.” 

“Nay. I thank thee, but I shall leave thee 
here,” Mark responded. 

“He’s leavin’ us here. D’yuh get that, Flash? 
Shashay la femme, as the frogs say—which, as I 
understand it, means ‘Hunt fer the dame in the 
case.’ In this case we ain’t got far tuh shash, I’m 
thinkin’. Give her my love.” 

“Nay. That I shall surely not do.” The youth 
froze up again. 

“Oh, that's jest another figger of speech. I 
didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Well, so long. See yuh 



84 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


in church sometime. That’s another, and means no 
more than the first.” 

Mark smiled as he dismounted from the car. 
Verily his new acquaintance was beyond his com¬ 
prehension—a denizen of a wholly different world. 
Flash’s thin legs straddled over into the seat which 
Mark had quitted and he slumped down, saying, 
“Come on, Bull. Step on the gas.” 

Mr. Durham sighed, and complied. The car shot 
forward down the road, leaving Mark Gray in 
Content but with a little ache bred of discontent 
in his heart. 



CHAPTER VIII 


A NEW IMPULSE 

Faith and David had both retreated behind the 
semi-concealment of the paling fence on observ¬ 
ing the car. Now that it had turned and sped away 
in a cloud of dust, the boy sprang through the 
gateway again and flung both arms about Mark’s 

waist. His sister took one step forward, and stood 
* 

with her arm resting on the gate post, her eyes cast 
modestly down, while the flooding color which her 
recent exercise had imparted to her cheeks was 
still further augmented. 

“I bid thee good-morning, Friend Mark,” she 
said, in a gentle voice. 

“And I, thee, Sister Faith.” He, too, lowered 
his eager eyes, directing his gaze at the top of 
David’s rumpled head, and hurried on, “Why dost 
thou try to hide behind me, David? Dost thou 
think that I would be thine accomplice and aid 
thee to escape a needed scrubbing? Nay.” 

“Yea. Thou dost always side with sister Faith, 
Mark. ‘Mine enemies encompass me about,’ ” the 
boy replied, in so doleful a voice that the other two 
could not help but laugh. 

“On the contrary, we are thy friends, son. Hast 

85 


86 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


thou forgotten that ‘cleanliness is next to godli¬ 
ness?’ ” 

“Then thou art not very godly, this morning. 
For thou hast a big smutch on thy cheek,” re¬ 
torted the lad, saucily. And he indicated it with 
his finger. 

Mark grew suddenly very red and relinquished 
his grasp on David to attack the tell-tale mark, 
vigorously. He felt as though he were branded, 
like Cain. 

“I do not know what hath gotten into David, this 
morning. He hath been naughty from the time 
he got up,” Faith exclaimed, with distress in her 
tone. The object of her remark attempted to dart 
away, only to be overtaken by a lunge of Mark’s 
long arm, and lifted into the air as Flash had been. 
“Thou shouldst apologize to Friend Mark for thy 
rudeness, David. The stains of labor are honor¬ 
able, and not like the soil acquired while wasting 
one’s time in mischief—as thine was.” 

Her words, kindly meant, fell like a lash on the 
quick of Mark’s conscience, and to cover his con¬ 
fusion he strode hastily towards the house, bear¬ 
ing the boy in his arms. On the porch, he held 
him almost grimly, and lent his aid in the process 
of making him, at least, wholly clean. David 
squirmed in vain and sputtered, “I hate water— 
except to swim in. Jeremiah saith that it is bad 
for one; it rusts the stomach just as it doth iron. 
And I think that it maketh my freckles.” 



A NEW IMPULSE 


87 


“Nonsense! Thy sister Faith hath none, and I’ll 
wager ... I mean, I am sure, that she washeth 
ten times to thy once,” answered Mark. 

“Well, she scrubs ’em off, I guess. Thou 
shouldst see her . . . ” 

“That will do, David,” interrupted Faith hastily. 
Full well she knew what embarrassing disclosures 
concerning the intimate family life a child often 
makes in all innocence. But she laughed a little, 
nevertheless. It was spring and the springtime of 
life was also glowing within her heart. And Mark 
was by her side. Their hands were immersed in the 
same basin of soapy water. They had just come 
in contact and, for just an instant, the fingers had 
intertwined. Mark laughed, too, and secretly 
prayed that the girl had been conscious of the 
same sort of thrill which had set his nerves to 
tingling pleasantly, and his heart to beating fast. 

At length David was clean enough to pass even 
his sister’s critical inspection of neck and ears. He 
was released, almost burnished. 

“Now run and harness the Prophet, dear,” she 
commanded. The old family horse had been given 
the name because of his seeming infallible abil¬ 
ity to foretell the coming of a tempest. “Friend 
Jeremiah hath loaded the truck wagon—at least, I 
suppose that he hath. Hope shall run and see.” 

“I will go if Mark wilt come and help me. Per¬ 
haps he wilt ride back to the village with us.” The 
boy’s face was beaming now. The ordeal was 




88 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


ended and he harbored no further resentment, but 
was winding himself about the legs of his erst¬ 
while persecuter. 

“Nay. I shall walk ’cross lots,” answered the 
man, quickly. It would never, never do for him to 
be seen riding with Faith! “Thou hast no need of 
my help, Davie. Run along, as thy sister hath 
bidden thee. See, little Hope hath already gone.” 

“Aw, thou art always telling me to Tun along,’ it 
seemeth to me—thou and Friend Dyer Dexter, when 
he cometh over to see sister Faith.” The boy de¬ 
parted, scarcely at a run, his bare feet rebelliously 
kicking up the dust. 

“Friend Dyer Dexter seemeth to come here fre¬ 
quently.” 

“Mark, I do not like to hear thee speak in that 
manner,” responded Faith. 

He assumed a look of injured innocence. “I 
said nothing. I merely stated a fact which 
David ...” 

“The tone of voice often saith more than the 
words, Mark. Friend Dyer is our next neighbor. 
If he cometh here, occasionally, is it strange? 
Especially as we are situated, with no older person 
save the irresponsible Jeremiah to assist and . . . 
and advise us?” 

“Nay, it is only natural and proper, I suppose, 
but ...” The single word Tut’ can also ex¬ 
press more than a full sentence. “I have no right 
to criticize him, I suppose, even if . . . But I sus- 



A NEW IMPULSE 


89 


pect that thou wilt very soon hear a severe criticism 
of me from his lips, Faith—and in part a just one. 
I ... I came out here partly for the purpose 
of telling thee about it; not that I mean to ex¬ 
cuse my conduct, which hath been inexcusable I 
fear.” 

“Oh, Mark! What hast thou been doing— 
now?” Faith clasped her hands together and her 
lips trembled a little. 

In a voice which was low and hesitating through 
distress, yet at times not without a hint of amuse¬ 
ment as he recalled the events, the man frankly re¬ 
counted all that had occurred that morning, exten¬ 
uating nothing. He prefaced his story with the 
sentence, “The soil upon my cheek was not that of 
honorable work, Faith.” 

As he talked, the girl—without conscious voli¬ 
tion—walked from the porch to a little bench be¬ 
neath an elm. Her gesture was an invitation for 
Mark to do likewise, but he was too filled with nerv¬ 
ous energy to remain seated. Under the spur of 
memory, awakened by his recital, his breathing 
quickened and his nerves and muscles would not 
be still. Once Faith interrupted him, to say, 
“Come, sit thee beside me, and try to compose thy¬ 
self, Mark. Thou art needlessly excited. It is all 
over, now.” 

“Verily, I cannot be quiet—especially this morn¬ 
ing. I cannot explain it, but there is something 
within me, some strange power, which seemeth to 



90 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


be driving me constantly. I must be doing some¬ 
thing,” he responded. 

“What . . . what is it, Mark?” 

. “Nay, I do not know. How many times have 
I asked myself the same question and found no 
reasonable answer to it? Perhaps it is as Sister 
Patience sayeth, and I was born with the spirit of 
unrest, which seemeth to be abroad in all the world, 
within me. Though I know not why I should have 
been, for mother they say, was gentle and sweet and 
father is a man devoid of nerves, I truly believe.” 

Mark completed his confession, stopped, and the 
girl exclaimed, “Nay. Thou wert not so very much 
to blame, I am sure. At least I understand. Cir¬ 
cumstances do alter cases, and I know what I shall 
answer if Friend ... if any one repeats the story 
to me, as gossip defaming thee.” 

In her earnestness her color mounted and her 

voice rang out bravely. Mark had gone around be- 
* 

hind her in his nervous pacing, and now he looked 
directly down upon her hair, enticingly disarranged, 
the white curves of her neck which so quickly lost 
themselves within the scarcely whiter kerchief, the 
rich tinting of one cheek which was partially turned 
towards him, and the quickened rise and fall of her 
young bosom. He had been stirred with a real 
remorse. His heart strings had been plucked and 
were vibrant with an emotion which could easily 
be translated into love. And she was now declaring 
herself his champion! 



A NEW IMPULSE 


91 


Faith almost felt the intensity of his gaze; at 
least she sensed the magnetic change within him 
and turned her head with the startled movement of 
a deer which has somehow become aware of the un¬ 
seen hunter’s presence. She would have risen; but, 
swifter than she, Mark bent down impulsively, took 
her head firmly but with utter tenderness between 
his two big hands, bent it back to him and kissed 
her, full upon the slightly parted lips, once; twice. 
Then the girl broke away and sprang to her feet, 
facing him. On her countenance was a new look, 
born of pain, anger, or love. Perhaps of all 
three. 

‘'Mark Gray! How didst thou dare?” 

Faith did not wait to hear the answer to her de¬ 
mand. Before he could speak so much as the first 
word of entreaty or apology, she had turned about 
and run like a frightened thing back to the porch and 
into the house. 

Mark was taken by surprise but he hesitated only 
a second. Her swift-taking flight redoubled his 
desire. He had tasted of a wine more potent than 
any pressed from the grape, and then the cup had 
been snatched from his lips, tantalizingly. Vault¬ 
ing over the impending bench, he gave chase and 
reached the closed door just in time to hear its bolt 
shot into place. Far a moment he pressed all his 
weight against locked portal, twisting the knob and 
calling her name. His' very being was crying aloud. 
Well for Faith that she had been so quick, if her 



92 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


heart were not ready to hear the answer to her 
question which she had asked! 

The hot impulse passed from Mark, and left him 
shaken and ashamed, bitterly ashamed. His hands 
clenched; he bowed his head against the panel of the 
door, and gasped, half audibly, “O God, Thou 
knowest that I love her, love her! But why didst 
Thou allow me to frighten her as I have done? 
Love is not a sin, but passion is, and she must 
think . . . Nay, she cannot think that of me. 
Make her to understand, O Lord!’’ He groaned 
in the new anguish of his heart. “Verily an evil 
spirit possesseth me that I should act thus. Or else 
I am merely a fool. Grant me wisdom; strength 
to conquer these my mad impulses, I pray 
thee.” 

And Faith ? 

She had stopped on the inner side of the barred 
door and turned, trembling, suddenly weak of limb. 
All the physical strength seemed to have been 
drained from her body. She, too, leaned against 
the other side of the thin panel, with her flushed 
forehead pressed hard against the wood and her 
hands covering her hot cheeks, although none was 
there to see. Almost like an echo to his cry, she 
murmured, “O Lord, why didst Thou let him do 
that? It was so wrong, wicked! And, Lord, 
help me to believe that he meant no evil, for . . . 
for I want to believe it.” 

Never had she experienced the feelings which 



A NEW IMPULSE 


93 


now swept over her in recurrent waves, each leav¬ 
ing her more shaken than its predecessor. Nor could 
she analyze them; they were made up of so many 
component parts of sweet pain and happiness filled 
with bitter misgivings. She had been kissed—by 
Mark! And she knew in her innermost heart that 
the first time her lips had not repelled his. Shame; 
and trembling delight! 

The man remained as he was for a moment 
longer, too agitated to move. Then he slowly 
turned away, just as David approached down the 
drive, slapping the reins over the Prophet’s broad 
back. Little Hope was beside him on the high 
seat. 

“Thith ith our chariot, Mark,” she piped. “We 
are going to rathe all the way to the village and 
will take thee with uth.” 

“Nay, I have raced too much this morning, al¬ 
ready,” answered the man. “I shall walk slowly, 
and still beat thee thither, I think; for thy sister 
Faith will scarcely wish to start while I am in 
sight,” he added, bitterly. 

“Why not? She loveth thee!” announced the 
boy. 

“What?” Mark’s heart leaped at the words. 

“Sure she doth! I told her that she did, this 
morning, and she said ...” 

“Yea. What did she say?” 

“She said, ‘Surely I like him.’ And then I re¬ 
reminded her that thou wert a neighbor and that the 



94 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Bible saith, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thy¬ 
self/ So you see that she must.’’ 

Mark’s face fell. “Oh!” he responded, and 
turned sharply away. 

When he reached the gate he turned back for one 
more look at the door. It was still forbiddingly 
closed. A symbol? “Oh, what a fool I have been 
—what a fool I am everlastingly being!” he thought. 
“Was there ever’ in the world another man who 
acted as I act, eternally rushing up to the heights 
and then falling abruptly into the depths of 
regret ?” 

As usual his appearance reflected his thoughts, 
and he started slowly down the side of the road 
with head bowed, hands clasped, and shoulders 
drooping. 

Behind the door Faith had heard the brief colloquy 
with new emotions. She knew that Mark had taken 
his departure, and from the tone in which his “Oh!” 
had been uttered she guessed his feelings. How 
could David have said what he did? He was old 
enough to know better than to have made such a 
statement, and he ought to be punished for it. 
But why should she correct him if he were telling 
the truth? Or was he? After all it would be 
better to pretend that she had not heard. She 
opened the door and stepped onto the porch just 
in time to see the man whom she now knew to be 
her confessed lover—for actions, like intonations, 
often speak louder than words—as he was 



A NEW IMPULSE 


95 


passing out of sight. He appeared so wretchedly 
distressed that the last spark of resentment died 
within her, and her heart cried out to him as 
a mother’s toward the child whom she has 
had to punish. She might even now call him 
back. 

“Drive along, David. I will walk and open the 
gate for thee,” she said. Faith hurried a little, al¬ 
though still undecided. She reached the end of the 
drive and glanced down the road just in time to 
see an astounding transformation take place in 
Mark. His shoulders straightened; his head was 
thrown back with face lifted to the skies as though 
in exultation; his long arms were flung up and out 
with a gesture of abandon that was almost pagan. 
Faith started in amazement. What had hap¬ 
pened ? 

What, indeed! 

Mark was soaring again, borne upward on the 
wings of memory, stirred to life by the recollection 
of David’s statement. “Out of the mouth of babes!” 
Perhaps it were true. Faith might love him; at any 
rate, he meant that she should. And he had kissed 
her! What if she had fled from him, her Quaker 
soul in shocked rebellion against his unseemly act, 
when no word of affection had ever been spoken 
between them? He had done it, and memory 
brought freshly back the sensation of that brief 
moment when her sweet breath had been on his face, 
and her warm lips on his. She, too, seemed to 



96 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


have answered the call of nature at springtide, the 
mating season. And what, after all, was there 
wrong in it? Why should he allow that act to be 
a cause of shame and remorse for him, Nay, he 
meant to do it again—and again. Exultation, in 
truth! There was a bird singing, overhead; he 
must sing, too. It mattered not what he sang, and 
for a moment he was entirely unconscious of the 
melody and words which burst from his lips. “O, 
by gee, by gosh, by gum, by Jove.” 

Suddenly he stopped, cold all over, as he realized 
that he was chanting the profane, ribald—or so it 
seemed to him—song which the city youth had sung 
at the smithy. Perhaps David and little Hope had 
heard him! He spun around on his heel. The 
Prophet was just appearing through the gateway; 
but infinitely worse than that, Faith was herself 
standing by the roadside, her lips parted, eyes wide 
with amazement and hands pressed against her 
breast. 

Every atom of strength seemed to ooze from 
Mark; he turned hot and icy cold by turns. Faith 
had heard. He took one uncertain backward step, 
struck his heel against the protruding root of a 
tree and fell flat! That was the final straw. 
Mark’s ignominy was complete. He wished that 
the ground on which he had fallen might open and 
swallow him up, or that he might turn into the 
worm which he felt like, and hide from the sight 
of men within it. He sprang to his feet to see 



A NEW IMPULSE 


97 


Faith starting towards him, her countenance now 
filled with pain and pity. He fled. 

“There, sister Faith,” exclaimed David. “Thou 
seest that Friend Mark doth say the words I told 
thee he did—those that are akin to profanity.” 



CHAPTER IX 


COINCIDENCES 

“Say, Flash, ain’t that Bob—Bob Means? Old 
Bob Means?” The Bull asked the question and 
answered it himself. “Sure it is.” 

“Uh-huh. Wonder when he got back, and why. 
I haven’t heard that gay Paree has gone dry, yet. 
Who’s that with him?” 

“Dunno. Hey, Bob! How’s the boy; how’s 
every little thing?” 

Durham, who never did anything by halves, 
stopped the machine with a jerk which almost pre¬ 
cipitated Flash through the windshield. The car 
slewed to the curbing, just missing the man whom 
he had hailed, and who now turned on them with 
a scowl. When he recognized his accoster he 
smiled, and put out a slender hand encased in a 
pale chamois glove to meet the Bull’s welcoming 
grasp. 

Robert Means was as patently a product of one 
type as the wrestler was of another, and Flash of 
a third; yet they were all akin in one respect, al¬ 
though for different reasons. The squared circle 
or the wrestling mat threw over them all, alike, the 
spell which binds together the brotherhood of sport- 

98 


COINCIDENCES 


99 


ing men. With the latter two it was a matter 
of vocation; with the former, one of avocation, 
however, as any one could have told at a 
glance. 

Means’s attire was ultra-fashionable and as sporty 
as that of the “gambler-manager,” although of 
quite a different type. A pearl gray Fedora Pari¬ 
sian morning suit, spats, and bamboo cane lent him 
an air of distinction, and his face offered no jar¬ 
ring note. It was obviously patrician, and a mul¬ 
titude of chorus girls, to whom it was not altogether 
unfamiliar, declared that it was not only the beau 
ideal of manly beauty but had “class.” It was 
classic; cast in Grecian mold, with high forehead, 
slender, somewhat aquiline nose, well-shaped mouth, 
and firm chin. His dark mustache was—after the 
fashion of the day—clipped so close that it was 
scarcely more than a sharply-defined shadow on 
his short upper lip. And he was well-proportioned 
and naturally athletic, although his muscles were 
soft from lack of real exercise. So far good 
enough, but his gray eyes were cold and lack-luster, 
and the flesh beneath them already held a hint of 
future flabby pouches, while lines, graven by ex¬ 
cesses, imparted to the corners of his mouth a 
downward curve more petulant than severe. Too 
much wealth for which he had not had to work, 
too much unemployed time, too much of those 
things of life which should be sparingly used, or 
better avoided altogether, had left their stamp upon 




100 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


his face, despite the fact that he was only in the 
middle thirties. 

A countenance is an open book whereon the mov¬ 
ing hand of Time ineffaceably records the marks of 
character for the physiognomist to read. The proc¬ 
ess is infinitely slow, but it is as sure as Time 
itself, like the minute formal changes in a coral 
reef by the accretions of multitudinous polyps too 
tiny to be seen alone. 

Means, with his inherited wealth and the profli¬ 
gate tendencies which it bred, was precisely the type 
of man which the melodramists of our grandsires’ 
time portrayed as the inevitable city villain of the 
piece, painting his vices in blackest hues. But he 
was in reality no more the out-and-out knave than 
was Friend Dyer Dexter, and he would have been 
fully as incensed as such a characterization. “I’m 
not a bad sort of chap, although I make no pretense 
to being a saint—heaven forbid!” he might have 
said. 

And such was the fact, judged by the standards 
of his kind. 

We, in our greater wisdom and influenced by 
modern tolerance, know well enough that the rich 
city man is by no means necessarily a villain, nor 
yet is the simple country girl always sweet and pure; 
although it is only fair to admit that the contrast¬ 
ing environments in which the two dwell offer 
greater opportunities for the one to be bad and the 
other to be good—if only negatively so. Thus 



COINCIDENCES 


101 


in the case of Robert Vandervetter Means, scion 
of an ancient and aristocratic Philadelphia family. 
He had always had the opportunity for free indulg¬ 
ence in the vices which present themselves to men of 
his station, and it was hardly strange that he had 
not always turned a deaf ear to their appeal. For, 
in the cities at least, they come not hideous of as¬ 
pect, but rather attractively arrayed, and either have 
the tacit approval of society or are politely ignored. 
It is this fact which makes the influence of city life 
so insidious, so hard to armor oneself against, 
so weakening to the moral fiber. A fight, even if it 
be temporarily lost, is strengthening: easy surrender 
makes the next surrender more easy. 

So much for the past of Mr. Robert Means. He 
now greeted the wrestler cordially, Flash with more 
reserve, and then introduced his companion, in an 
off-hand manner, as “Mr. Hibbard.” He was an 
exemplar of still a fourth type; the young, energetic, 
clean-living and thinking American of good blood 
and hard-earned education, with a real job to give 
him a purpose in life and keep him from the 
manifold temptations which lie in wait for the 
idler. 

“What yuh been doin’, all these months?” de¬ 
manded the Bull, addressing Means. 

“Globe-trotting, in theory—which means wast¬ 
ing my time and substance in riotous living in 
Paris. Got dead sick of it and came home.” 

“Sure yuh did. It don’t get yuh nothin’. I 




102 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


done it, once—went as far as Boston and loafed a 
week. It don’t get yuh nothin’.” 

“Still the same old philosophical pugilist,” smiled 
Means, tolerantly. “I’ll have to come around and 
let you jolly me a bit, Bull. I’m out of sorts, these 
days.” 

“Prob’ly your liver’s outer order; too much raw 
fusil oil at ten dollars a quart, since yuh got home. 
Prohibition’s a good thing, in theory, but prohi¬ 
bition that don’t prohibit is what Sherman said 
war was. Yuh see I’ve cut out cussin’ ? And 
thereby hangs a tale, as the poet said.” 

“Tell it to me, sometime,” answered Means, glanc¬ 
ing significantly at his watch. 

“Sure I will. Tell yuh a good one on Flash, 
here, too. Come around tuh my training place al¬ 
most anytime and Til put yuh through a course of 
sprouts that’ll take the bile outer your system, al¬ 
though prob’ly what yuh need most is to beat it 
away and rustycate somewhere fer a while, and di¬ 
lute the stuff that’s in your blood with some water— 
know what that is ?” 

“Rather. I just sailed across three thousand 
miles of the stuff—that’s plenty.” 

“I’ll say so!” interpolated Flash. 

“I ain’t jokin’. That, and some real fresh air 
instead of cigarette smoke in your lungs is what 
yuh need, even though yuh smoke tobacker instead 
of the dope that Flash, here, inhales. Yes, sir. 
You’d ought tuh get out in the country, and rusty- 



COINCIDENCES 


103 


cate fer a while—lead the simple life, at some place 
like . . .” The Bull paused, and an amused 
twinkle crept into his little eyes. He suddenly 
slapped his thigh, resoundingly, and burst into a loud 
guffaw. 

“I know jest the place fer yuh—don’t we, Flash? 
A country village about fifty or sixty miles from an 
electric light. Fine air, water—Flash’ll tell yuh the 
same—scenery; especially scenery. We saw some, 
jest as we was leavin’. Nothin’ to do ’til to-mor¬ 
row, all day long, except inhale ozone and watch 
the chickens. ...” 

“ ‘Chickens,’ is right,” broke in Flash with a 
significant wink. 

“Now, you begin to interest me strangely.” 
Mr. Means smiled. “Where is your garden of 
Eden?” 

“On the main road. . . . Couple of hours’ 
run out in a car. It’s a sort of a ‘Forty-five Min¬ 
utes from Broadway’ place, only more so, a whole 
lot more so. Nothing but Quakers and Quaker¬ 
esses there, say in’ ‘thee and thou’ and ‘yea and nay.’ 
It’s a scream tuh hear ’em.” 

“More and more enticing, after Paris. What’s 
its name?” 

“Dam . . . pardon me, danged if I know. Let’s 
see, though. There was a sign. It’s got a sort of 
a Pollyanna-like moniker . . . dang it all, I ferget, 
but I could find my way there again, if I should 
ever decide to go; and I may, at that.” 




104 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


'‘Same here, and many of ’em,” added Flash, 
promptly. “I like the bright lights, but if a certain 
pair of bright eyes would shine for me, Fd almost 
be content. . . .” 

“That’s it. You’ve said it!” The Bull’s tone 
was eager. “ ‘Content’ is the name; I knew it all 
the time.” 

“‘Content?’” Mr. Hibbard now broke into the 
conversation. “That’s an odd coincidence, Bob. 
There can’t very well be more than one village by 
that name in the state, and it's where I’m going 
next week to continue a survey for a new branch 
of the B. & O. Besides, I’ve heard that its inhabi¬ 
tants were Friends, and I’ve been rather looking 
forward to seeing what their life really is like.” 

“You’ll get an eyeful, all right. Funny guys, but 
some of ’em are almost human, and one’s a real 
he-man. Ask Flash, he knows. Eh, Flash ?” 

His satellite scowled. 

“Good. What’s his name? Perhaps I’ll be able 
to get acquainted with him.” 

“Goes by the name of Mark something. But he 
ain’t no easy one, I’m tellin’ yuh. He’s one big 
boy, and a game guy, too. Works in his dad’s 
blacksmith shop and knows more about motors than 
most city garredge men, I’ll say. Mighty good 
man to have as a friend, and a bad one tuh run 
afoul of, fer he’s the original fightin’ Quaker—a 
prayin’ son of a gun, that packs a wollop in each fist. 
I know. Wanted tuh cure me of cussin’, and actu- 



COINCIDENCES 


105 


ally make Flash cut out cigarette smokin’ fer ’most 
two minutes. If I was the doctor I’d send yuh 
out there, Bob, and give this Mark boy orders to 
attend tuh your case.” 

“Better take your friend’s advice, Bob. He has 
hit the nail on the head. You need fresh air and 
water; but most of all a fresh point of view. And 
what could be a better cure for discontent than 
Content itself? Come along with me. I like com¬ 
pany, and I was planning to rough it and make 
the trip a semi-vacation anyway; pitch a tent in 
some sylvan grove, and get most of my own grub. 
That’s got Paris beaten a mile, in my estimation— 
but of course I was only over there during the late 
unpleasantness.” Hibbard was a persuasive arguer 
and Means’ weary eyes lighted up a little with the 
reflection of a long-lost boyish enthusiasm. He 
smiled. 

“A truly brilliant suggestion! The Bull is dis¬ 
interested and ingenuous in his advice, but methinks 
that thou hast an eye to the main chance, and are 
looking for a goat to wash dishes and supply a 
car to lug your luggage in. Am I right?” 

Hibbard laughed in turn, frankly. “ ‘You’re 
blanked right, you’re right!’ ‘A truly brilliant sug¬ 
gestion’—to quote yourself. I had thought of the 
dish^washing, but not of the car, and I accept your 
generous offer in the spirit in which it was made.” 

“Only it hasn’t been made, yet.” 

“Better' make it then, Bob,” interpolated the 



106 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


wrestler. “The air will do yuh good, and the na¬ 
tives will do yuh the same, if yuh don’t watch out, 
as the poet says. The French have the ability in 
seperatin’ yuh from your hard-earned coin, I’m 
told, but the Friends ain’t tuh be sneezed at in that 
respect. Think it over. Well, we’ve got to be 
movin’. So long, Bob. Glad to have met yuh, 
Mr. Hibbard. Better persuade him tuh go along; 
but if he does, keep an eye on him. There’s a 
Thicken’ there, all right, but the young blacksmith 
has got her spoke for, or I miss my guess, and he’s 
a bad man tuh cross.” 

“Aw, cut out the chatter and step on the gas,” 
remarked Flash in a husky undertone. The driver 
obeyed, and so passes out of the chronicle—for a 
time. 

Coincidence? Assuredly. But all history is 
composed of apparent coincidences and through 
their agency the course of countless human lives, 
as well as world events, is often completely altered. 



CHAPTER X 


ON THE FIRST DAY 

The Sabbath in Content—the “First Day.” 

Of course it was merely an illusion, but it seemed 
that nature, itself, was more tranquil and lovely on 
that day of rest. At least, so it appeared to Mark 
Gray. Bees, dusted golden with pollen, buzzed 
over the pink-tipped clover tops with a drowsier 
hum; the bird notes were tuned to a more har¬ 
monious key. The songful silence of nature over¬ 
flowed the village from the near-by fields. Over¬ 
head, the sky spread a canopy of blue, unblemished 
save for one cream cloud no larger than a man’s 
hand above the eastern horizon hills. 

To the youth the Sabbath was always a day 
fraught with a mixture of feelings. Its utter peace 
at once attracted and maddened him, for, although it 
sometimes helped him to calm his violent bursts of 
impulse, labor was forbidden and even this single 
outlet for his surcharged energies and youthful ex¬ 
uberance of spirits was closed to him. The Friends 
paid to the Biblical injunction, “on it thou shalt do 
no manner of work; neither thou, nor thy man¬ 
servant nor thy maid-servant, thine ox nor thine 

107 


108 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


ass, nor the stranger that is within thy gates” as 
nearly letter-perfect obedience as is humanly pos¬ 
sible. It was for them indeed a day of rest and 
solemn meditation, in the Meeting House and in 
their own homes, whose front window shutters were 
tightly closed. But to Mark it brought moments 
when he felt as a man in a straight-jacket and pad¬ 
ded cell must feel. He wanted to shriek aloud. 

At such times he often found some relief for his 
pent-up emotions by passing through the portal of 
imagination into the wonderful country of “Make 
Believe,” whither few grown-up members of his 
sect could possibly have followed him, even had 
they so desired. Once arrived there, Mark was the 
hero of many a stirring adventure which set his 
nerves to vibrating and heart to pounding as 
strongly as though his action had been physical. 
Romance of this sort wickedly filled many a long 
period of silence, supposed to be devoted to prayer, 
while the entire population of Content were gathered 
together in the severely simple Meeting House and 
waiting for the Spirit to move one of their number 
to speak aloud. 

During these silent periods he found some man¬ 
ner of relief in another way, as well. As at no 
other time he could watch Faith’s sweet face—cov¬ 
ertly, to be sure, but almost continually—as she sat 
with the other women across from him, her hands 
folded in her lap, her head devoutly bent. Oc¬ 
casionally her own luminous eyes would be lifted 



ON THE FIRST DAY 


109 


to his, as though magnetically attracted. And, more 
occasionally still, he would think that he read a 
message in them, one that he hardly dared to trans¬ 
late for fear that he might be wrongly ascribing to 
it the meaning that he wished to find. But this 
was all in the past. 

The First Day morning in Content! 

The time for meeting was almost at hand, and 
somber-clad Quaker families were walking soberly 
towards the gray Meeting House at the Corners; 
sedate men, gentle women, prim children, all silent 
save for an occasional low voiced greeting. Some, 
who lived at more considerable distances, were rid¬ 
ing thither in plain wagons drawn by unhurried 
work horses, the very gait of which seemed to re¬ 
flect the spirit of the day. Friend Dyer Dexter 
came thus, with his brood of younger children, all 
pale and prim with little backs very erect and little 
hands precisely folded. 

“Poor youngsters,’’ thought Mark. “They do 
need a mother’s love and care. But God grant that 
it be another than Faith. I should verily carry her 
bodily away before I would yield her to him.” 
Friend Dyer passed by, with averted head; but 
Mark did not mind, for he was at that moment 
mentally snatching the girl he loved from the 
clutches of his rival, and bearing her away out into 
the wide, wide world in the Bull’s motor car at 
ninety miles an hour. Yet while he was so engaged, 




110 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


as he walked slowly onward with John Gray and 
Sister Patience, head bent and hand clasped about 
his Bible, his ears were strained for a certain well- 
known click-clack made only by the Prophet’s hoofs 
on the hard highway. 

For the tenth time he glanced up and behind 
him, to disappointment, and then permitted his gaze 
to wander over the fields which stretched from the 
roadside to the horizon hills, velvety in their spring 
verdure. A gentle breeze played fitfully over them, 
ruffling the grass in moving swathes. It looked so 
inviting that Mark felt a mad desire to break from 
the slow procession, cast his body down upon that 
grass, and roll over and over. He smiled a little 
at the succeeding thought of what consternation 
such an action on his part would occasion. Then 
his heart-beat quickened into unison with new hoof- 
beats. He looked expectantly back towards Smilie’s 
Corner. This time he was not disappointed. The 
old Prophet was plodding into view. Now he could 
see Jeremiah, a very yellow straw hat perched on 
his ill-fitting wig; behind him, on the rear seat of 
the family carry-all were Faith, David and Hope. 

“Mark!” 

John Gray’s quiet voice recalled him to the pres¬ 
ent, and the realization that he had stopped short. 
He flushed and stepped forward, only to halt again as 
the Sabbath stillness was outraged by a raucous 
blast from a siren horn. Simultaneously a big 
touring car turned the corner, almost on two wheels. 




ON THE FIRST DAY 


111 


Mark spun round. His mind visualized in a flash 
the former accident which had so aroused him, pic¬ 
turing Faith as its victim, for conditions were al¬ 
most identical, except that this time the automobile 
was coming around the corner behind the wagon. 
His heart seemed to leap into his throat; and with 
reason. For his mind picture and the scene which 
his eyes were beholding had merged into one. 

True, the roaring mechanical monster had passed 
the other vehicle, clearing it by a hairs breadth; 
but the Prophet—startled just as old Ned had been 
•—had broken into a frightened, lumbering gallop 
with the wagon swaying and jolting behind him. 
He heard an oath from Jeremiah; a cry of childish 
terror from little Hope. 

Mark leaped into the roadway, barely escaping 
collision with a mass of out-jutting paraphernalia 
which filled the tonneau of the speeding car. The 
plunging horse was almost upon him, but his quick¬ 
ened faculties had time to register a picture of 
Jeremiah standing up and sawing on the reins. His 
old hat and wig had fallen off and his almost bare 
head shone in the spring sunlight. Then the young 
man made a forward lunge. His hand, the mus¬ 
cles of which had been tempered almost to steel by 
work at the forge, seized the near rein close to the 
bit. The horse shied and reared, jerking his cap- 
tor from his feet Mark felt a wrench at his 
shoulder muscles. He caught a glimpse of a big 
hoof, which he had himself helped to shoe a week 




112 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


before, close to his eyes. He shut them, but hung 
on, desperately. 

Came a crash against his bent head; a shower of 
shooting stars enveloped him; blackness. 

He returned to a realization of time and place 
a moment later, and discovered that his head, which 
felt tremendously big and filled with every kind of 
pain, was pillowed on some one’s lap. With an 
effort he managed to open his eyes for an instant. 
They closed again, but not before he had, through 
a misty haze, seen Faith’s countenance close above 
his own. It had appeared oddly distressed, as 
though it were she who were in pain. Certainly 
there had been tears upon her cheeks and trembling 
on her eye-lids. 

“Oh, is he dead, is he dead?” Mark knew that 
the questioning voice was Faith’s, although the loud 
ringing in his ears almost drowned it out. The de¬ 
mand irritated him, somehow. Of course he was 
not dead. If he were he could not hear her speak! 
He tried to answer, but only a groan passed his 
lips. 

“Didst thou hear? He’s alive! Oh, thank God, 
thank God! Mark, dear Mark, canst thou hear 
me? Art thou badly hurt?” 

He shook his head a little. Already the weakness 
and nausea were passing away, for he was young 
and strong. The darting pains were lessening, too, 
but he felt listless and as though he would like to 
lie there, indefinitely; although he vaguely realized 



ON THE FIRST DAY 


113 


that “there” must be the middle of the road. He 
had been hit by an automobile, or something, had 
he not ? The middle of the road! Then Faith must 
be sitting in it, for she was certainly holding his 
head on her lap. There was something wrong 
about that. She shouldn’t be there, especially on 
the Sabbath! He must get up, even though he was 
strangely dizzy. By means of another anguishing 
effort he thrust himself into a sitting position, and 
opened his eyes again. 

There was a crowd of neighbors about him; his 
father, Sister Patience, all looking both frightened 
and relieved. Just beyond them appeared the bald 
head of Jeremiah Jones, and he was holding the 
head of the Prophet. Mark suddenly remembered. 

“I ... I am not hurt,” he announced, as he 
got unsteadily to his feet, aided and steadied by his 
father’s hand. He would have bent to assist Faith 
to arise, but some one was before him—Friend Dyer 
Dexter. Mark felt angry. Had he not earned the 
right to aid her? 

“Verily, that was a close call, my boy,” said his 
father in a husky voice. “God spared thy life then.” 

It was utterly foolish, he knew, but all he could 
think of was a saying he had once heard, “if a man is 
born to be hanged, he’ll never be drowned,” and he 
caught himself wondering if the same applied to one 
kicked by a horse. Others were speaking, all to- 
gether, in a jumble of words. It was all still rather 
uncertain, but they seemed to be commending him, 




114 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


saying that his quickness and courage prevented 
an accident, perhaps saved Faith’s life; that he had 
been heroic. It came as a shock to Mark, this re¬ 
alization that—for the first time in his existence— 
he was regarded with esteem by his neighbors. It 
helped still further to clear his brain and restore 
his strength. He consciously stood erect and said, 
“ ’Twas nothing.” 

Faith stepped forward and laid her hand on his 
dusty sleeve. “Nothing? How canst thou say that, 
Ma . . . Friend Mark? Thy courage saved . . . 
saved us all from possible injury. We thank thee 
from our hearts—and are proud of thee.” As she 
pronounced the last five words, her head went up 
with a visible challenge and she glanced for an in¬ 
stant directly at Friend Dyer Dexter. 

“Yea, yea,” murmured several others. Mark 
awkwardly patted her hand and she withdrew it, 
coloring deeply. 

There was an interruption. John Gray was 
pointing down the road, and saying, “The automo¬ 
bile is turning about; it is coming back. Friends, 
its driver was criminally careless, but perhaps he 
hath repented. Let us not forget ourselves and dis¬ 
play unseemly spleen.” He spoke to all, yet it was 
obvious that he was uttering a warning alike to 
Mark and himself, for his face was dark with the 
shadow of suppressed wrath. “Verily those of the 
city have no regard for the Sabbath.” 

“Nor for life, limb, or property,” added Dexter, 




ON THE FIRST DAY 


115 


hotly. “We should seek some way to put an end 
to the menace of their motor cars. Of a truth, 
Content is no longer what it used to be.” 

The car was approaching them now. Gray 
glanced at Mark and read on his countenance what 
was occurring within his heart, for hot indignation 
was welling up again and clamoring for drastic 
action. For once he sided with Friend Dyer, and 
ached to begin the extermination of reckless car 
owners on the spot. 

“I will aid thee home, my boy,” said Gray, as he 
took Mark gently but firmly by the arm. “Come; 
it is best that thou goeth at once.” 

“Nay. ...” 

“Yea. I understand thy feelings, but thou canst 
do no good and might do much harm by remain¬ 
ing. Besides thou hast not noticed, but thine ap¬ 
parel . . .” 

Mark’s eyes followed his father’s gaze downward 
and every other thought was blotted out instantly, 
for he saw that the back of one of his trouser legs 
was ripped wide open, and the tear extended far 
upward. Hot with embarrassment and mortifica¬ 
tion, he seized the two loose ends with his hand and 
started off, saying, “Nay, I will go alone, father. 
I was not hurt, save for an instant.” 

He broke into an unsteady run, pursued by a shout 
of derisive laughter. Looking back over his shoul¬ 
der, Mark caught sight of him who dared to laugh 
—the driver of the speeding car, a handsome but 



116 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


dissipated young man with a close-clipped mustache 
—and a bitter hatred of him was born in his heart. 
He almost stopped, to return and put his punitive 
desire into execution, but modesty drove him on to¬ 
wards home at a redoubled pace. Passion had made 
him forget the pain in his head and every thought 
of weakness. He scarcely saw the gate to the front 
walk, but the three-foot paling fence loomed in his 
path and over the top of it he went without break¬ 
ing his stride. 

There was a little gasp from some of the watching 
Friends, and a low whistle from the driver of the 
car. 




CHAPTER XI 


QUAKER MEETING 

Mr. Robert Vandervetter Means stopped his 
machine on the outskirts of the unfriendly cluster of 
Friends, stepped out of it and, golf cap in hand, ap¬ 
proached Faith, who had just climbed into the 
carry-all again. To do him justice, he had not seen 
Mark’s accident and might not have known that 
anything had gone wrong if he had not observed the 
excitement displayed by a family in front of him. 
It was still further to his credit that he so promptly 
returned in the face of the obvious hostility, do find 
out whether or not he had been the cause of any 
damage. 

Now he stepped deliberately in front of Friend 
Dyer Dexter, and addressed the girl in a tone which 
was both respectful and apologetic. “I am ex¬ 
tremely sorry if I was the cause of what seems 
to have been a near-runaway, Miss. I did not 
know . . ” 

“They never do, and they’re never going more 
than fifteen miles an hour,” interpolated Dexter, 
harshly. “Young man thou art one of an ac¬ 
cursed. . . 

“I do not recall having addressed you. I cer* 

ii 7 


118 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


tainly have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, 
and have no desire to make it, sir.” Means’ voice 
was suavely cutting, and even the stern old man 
was momentarily silenced and abashed. 

“Permit me to offer my sincere apologies,” con¬ 
tinued Means, turning back to Faith. “If any dam¬ 
age has been occasioned I will gladly pay. . . 

“Nay, there has been none—at least, not to . . . 
to us. Verily there might have been, however, had 
it not been for the bravery of ... of the young 
man who hath departed, and whose quickness pre¬ 
vented our horse from running away,” she re¬ 
sponded. 

“And as a result of thy carelessness, stranger, his 
life was placed in jeopardy.” John Gray spoke with 
marked control. 

“Indeed! Then I am doubly sorry, sir. I hope 
that you will extend my apologies to him likewise, 
if you see him before I do.” 

“Before thou dost? How shouldst thou see 
him?” 

“As it happens, my friend and I are planning to 
remain here for some days. I have just noticed 
that sign which indicates that we have reached the 
village of Content. It is scarcely a propitious ar¬ 
rival, but I trust that you will not hold this unfor¬ 
tunate occurrence up against us—against me, rather, 
for Mr. Hibbard was in nowise to blame.” He 
looked straight at Faith as he spoke, and smiled 
slightly but with entire good-breeding. The girl 



QUAKER MEETING 


119 


colored a little and dropped her eyes, and it was 
Gray who replied, “Thou hast frankly acknowl¬ 
edged thy fault and asked pardon therefor. It can¬ 
not but be granted, yet I trust that the recollection 
of this morning wilt serve as a lesson to thee. We 
are a mild, a forgiving people; others might not 
treat thee so leniently, and even though thine act 
was one of mere thoughtlessness, it might well have 
had serious consequences.” 

The speaker bowed his head slightly to indicate 
that the matter was ended. Means touched his 
cap, with an expression of humble contrition upon 
his face, and returned to his car. But his eyes 
were twinkling, and he deliberately winked at his 
companion. Gray turned and said, “Thy horse 
seemeth to be quieted, Jeremiah. Drive on.” 

“Giddap, Prof,” commanded the latter. The old 
Prophet started, as decorously as though he had 
never so much as thought of cutting capers, and the 
rest of the gathering resumed their way meeting- 
housewards, keeping their looks averted from the 
automobile. 

For a moment Means sat and watched them as 
they moved on with bowed heads and folded hand, 
meek and lowly of aspect. Then he laughed. 
“ ‘Less than the dust beneath my chariot wheel/ 
yet every one of them really as proud as punch, 
probably. I suppose that humility is emulated, 
here, with the same secret envy as hauteur among 
the four hundred. And this in nineteen hundred 



120 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and twenty-one, in this land of the fee and the 
home of the knave! Am I awake, Jack? Of 
course they’re not real!” 

“Your wrestler friend declared that they were. 
The gentleman with the long beard, who handed you 
out that fatherly lecture, looked real enough—and 
a yard wide. Do you know, I’ve a hunch that the 
one ‘the Bull’—as you call him—referred to as ‘a 
he-man’ was the youth of the torn trousers; the 
village hero, who so suddenly departed with ‘head 
bloody but unbowed.’ ” 

“The chap Durham suggested as a sparring part¬ 
ner to train me back to health?” asked Means. 

“Yes. If I’m right, you’re welcome to him! 1 
beg to be excused. He could knock your block off, 
and probably feels like doing it, at the present mo¬ 
ment. What a college fullback he’d make! Did 
you see his stride and the way he hurdled that 
fence ?” 

“Rather. But while you’re passing out the en¬ 
comiums, what was the matter with the sweet Pris¬ 
cilla, whose forgiving look descended like a silent 
absolution upon my bowed and contrite head?” 

“Not a thing, so far as I could see,” Hibbard 
answered heartily. 

“Precisely. I noticed the same limitations to ob¬ 
servation, myself. Well, in a way it’s refreshing to 
have something left to the imagination, again, isn’t 
it?” 

“Oh, cut it! I brought you out here into the 



QUAKER MEETING 


121 


country in part to get you away from all that sort 
of thing, Bob.” 

“Hopeless task. Philadelphia, Paris, or Pata¬ 
gonia, there’s no escaping the eternal lure of the 
lovely lass; anyway Fve found it so, although my 
modest conquests have not yet included Quakers.” 

“And I hope that they won’t, this time. Please 
bear in mind your friend the Bull’s warning and 
his commission to me. Possibly your Priscilla was 
the very lady to whom he alluded, although she 
seemed to have a couple of children and a bald- 
headed husband. Pm beginning to be almost sorry 
that I brought you.” 

“I’m not. I thought that I’d be bored to death 
for the sake of my body and spirit, but something 
tells me that I am going to enjoy your party.” He 
laughed, again, at the evidences of irritation appear¬ 
ing on Hibbard’s countenance, and then continued, 
“Do you know, Jack, I’m beginning to think that 
there may be something in Quakerism. That girl 
certainly displayed a peacefulness which has long 
been absent from my soul—assuming that I still 
have one. I’m tempted to give it the acid test.” 

“What in thunder are you driving at, now?” 

“Well, we’ve arrived just in time for church, 
haven’t we?” 

“Oh, cut out your nonsense and come on. We’ve 
got to reconnoiter for a place to pitch our camp.” 

“And we’ve got all the rest of the day to do it in. 
You’re getting too material, Jack. Shame! This 



122 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


is Sunday—can’t you devote one single morning 
hour to your soul’s good? ‘Everybody’s doing it,’ 
apparently. Of course I believe in freedom of 
choice—let your conscience be your guide—but I’m 
going to church.” Means spoke with a ludicrous 
assumption of righteousness. Then he smiled, and 
laughed outright. “Lord, what a yarn for the fel¬ 
lows at the club! They’ll award me the pup, as 
prince of liars, without argument. I haven’t been 
inside a church—except to attend a wedding—since 
God made little apples. It will be a novel experience 
—novelty’s the spice of my life; and a harmless 
one, you’ll have to admit.” 

“Shucks, you’re not in earnest, Bob! You haven’t 
the nerve to go in there, after the way those grave 
and reverend signors just glared at you,” ex¬ 
claimed Hibbard. 

“Haven’t I, though! My boy, nerve is the one 
thing I ain’t got nothing else but. Besides, all the 
more reason for going. It is the custom of the 
country, and since we are going to dwell in their 
land we should render obedience to their laws. 
‘When in Rome,’ you know.” 

He brought the car to a stop before the square 
gray Meeting House, and jumped promptly out, say¬ 
ing, “You may stay and guard our goods and chat¬ 
tels if you like, but I’m going in, and I think that 
I’ll know how to behave. I was a cherubic little 
devil of a choir-boy once upon a time, I’ll have you 
understand.” 






QUAKER MEETING 


128 


“Devil of a lot of good it did you,” grumbled 
Hibbard, but he descended and followed his friend 
into the building, hesitatingly. 

The scene which presented itself to their unaccus¬ 
tomed eyes caused them to stop on the threshold 
with an amazement which bordered on a shock. 
Of course they had hardly expected—if either had 
had any expectations at all—to see an interior akin 
to that of a city church, with subdued light coming 
through colorful stained glass, richly carved and 
upholstered pews, carpeted aisles, a vested rector 
and choir. But this! What had they entered? 
A plain, bare room, without chancel, altar or even 
pulpit; without organ or singers, priest, rector, or 
parson; without any of the ecclesiastical and sacer¬ 
dotal trappings which had, in their minds, become 
an integral part of religious worship. “Where two 
or three are gathered together in His name” had no 
significance for them, if indeed they had ever taken 
notice of that text. Stranger still was the silent 
congregation; the womenfolk and smaller children 
all on one side, the men on the other. “The sheep 
separated from the goats,” whispered Means, irrev¬ 
erently. And strangest of all in their eyes—the 
male part of the congregation wore its collective 
hat! 

There was a slight stir as they entered. Even 
devoutly downcast eyes flickered long enough to 
focus the picture of the two city men standing in 
the doorway. John Gray quietly approached, and 



124 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


welcomed them with the spirit of Christian brother¬ 
hood perfectly cloaking his surprise. The pair fol¬ 
lowed him to seats on the right side, Means whis¬ 
pering, “ ‘When in Rome’—as I said before,” and 
he replaced the checked gray golf cap at a sporty 
angle on his head. Hibbard followed suit, and sat 
fidgeting uncomfortably. He knew that his head 
covering was a startling plaid and of so violent a 
green that his mother had frequently threatened to 
burn it up. In his mind’s eye it now assumed mon¬ 
strous proportions. There were a few hurriedly- 
hushed titters from the younger children, espe¬ 
cially David, and Hibbard actually blushed. Con¬ 
found Robert Means! 

Meanwhile, the man whom he was confounding 
had quickly recovered from his initial embarrass¬ 
ment, and his bold gaze had sought out the corner 
where Faith Franklyn sat, a child on each side of 
her. She sensed the fact intuitively, and was dis 
tressed and a little angry, although she knew that 
anger should not be allowed to enter that hallowed 
place. Her head was lower bowed until only the tip 
of her shapely nose, her demure pink lips, and 
rounded chin showed; these, and a violet shadow 
on her left cheek where a dimple dwelt when she 
smiled. 

Nothing happened. 

The congregation sat with folded hands, silent. 
A gentle spring breeze danced over the waving grass 
and nodding clover-tops, catching up bits of their 



QUAKER MEETING 


125 


fragrance and wafting it in through the open win¬ 
dows. Like an embodiment of the ,perfume, a 
tinted butterfly fluttered in and hovered for an in¬ 
stant over Dyer Dexters head. There were a few 
more titters. The buzzing of a puzzled bee which 
had blundered into the room and could not seem to 
find its way out although every window was open, 
and the distant song of birds, were the only other 
sounds. 

The long drive in the open air, and now the sooth¬ 
ing effect of the place began to react upon Robert 
Means, who was never really wide-awake until after 
night had fallen. Looking at the unresponsive 
girl was an entertainment which quickly lost its 
power to hold him. His head bent lower. His 
eyes closed. 

After the lapse of a surprisingly brief period of 
time Mark Gray was once more swinging his long 
legs down the dusty road towards the Meeting 
House. The blood was washed from his hair, now 
neatly parted and plastered down again. His Sab¬ 
bath coat was freshly brushed and his torn nether 
garments had given place to the work-a-day pair of 
trousers, the ones which missed his boot tops by a 
full three inches; the hiatus was filled by the lighter 
gray of home-knit socks. Mark was uncomfort¬ 
ably conscious of the fact, and correspondingly em¬ 
barrassed. But there was no one in sight—that was 
a blessing; and, although his head still buzzed a 



126 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


little and felt tender to the touch, he swung swiftly 
along until his goal appeared in sight. 

Then he stopped short. 

Directly in front of the Meeting House stood the 
big and glistening motor car, unoccupied! Mark 
gasped. It seemed unbelievable that the man who 
had driven it so recklessly and been the near-cause 
of a serious accident, whose laughter had mocked 
his misfortune, should have dared to enter their 
place of worship. Yet it looked as though he had 
actually done so. Why? 

Intuition is said to be an essentially feminine 
faculty, but occasionally men exercise it, especially 
when they are in love. Mark knew that the owner 
of the machine had returned and seen Faith. If it 
had been he, he would assuredly have stayed, brav¬ 
ing the devil himself, and followed her. His lips 
drew tightly together; his nerves began to vibrate 
like wires under the sweep of the invisible fingers 
of a tempestuous wind, for a tempest was stirring 
his own soul. It fanned the spark of hatred, which 
had been kindled by Means’ laughter, until it burned 
anew. For a moment the idea of striding into the 
building and jerking its defiler out by his coat col¬ 
lar flashed through his mind. 

But habit conquered. Mark tip-toed into the 
silent place and paused. He knew every soul in 
Content, young and old. He knew where each 
sat. But to-day he found an anticipated jarring 
note in the gray symphony. On the men’s side 



QUAKER MEETING 


127 


appeared a glaring spot of color, supplied by Hib¬ 
bard’s offending cap and the bright cravats of the 
two strangers. From the exotic and discordant 
note in the general color scheme, Mark turned his 
eyes towards Faith. Fler face was unusually pale. 
With set teeth he slipped into his accustomed 
straight-backed seat, which happened to be the one 
just behind that of the nodding Means. 

His coming aroused the stranger for a moment, 
and his look again turned towards the girl in wor¬ 
ship of. whose physical charms he had entered, 
paganlike, into this house of God. It was no use; 
sleep lay heavily upon his eye-lids. There was noth¬ 
ing to break the monotonous silence, not even music, 
and the disturbing influence within their midst pre¬ 
vented any one from being moved by the Spirit to 
utter his or her prayerful thoughts aloud. Means 
yawned, and announced in a whisper to his friend 
that he had been a double-dyed ass to have come in. 
“Serves you jolly well right,” answered the other. 
“Now you’ve got to stick it out, or be forever 
damned here.” Means closed his eyes again; 
nodded; slept. 

Mark had momentarily yielded to the religious 
spell of the spot. After the first wave of his re¬ 
born wrath had receded, he consciously prayed with 
his whole heart, prayed for strength to overcome 
his explosive passions which seemed like tinder, 
ever ready to ignite at the least spark. But this 
mood, too, passed. He could not see Faith, except 



128 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


by craning his neck—and that was, of course, out 
of the question. His head ached; there was still 
dust in his nostrils which made him constantly want 
to sneeze. Mark knew the echo-provoking pos¬ 
sibilities of his sneeze and struggled to restrain 
it. He drew out his handkerchief and used it, 
gently. 

At the same instant Means gave an audible snore. 
The children tittered. A responsive smile appeared 
on Mark’s lips, for he was, as he had said, still a 
boy at heart. It broadened as an audacious and 
mischievous plan sprang, full-grown, into his brain. 
He sternly checked the itching impulse to put it 
into effect, and really thought that he had conquered 
it. But the Tempter never yet fought fair. He 
pretends to take flight only to slip just out of sight, 
and bide his time until he can catch his adver¬ 
sary off his guard. For who can be eternally vigi¬ 
lant? 

Again Mark had need of recourse to his hand¬ 
kerchief, and instinctively bent down behind the 
man in front of him. Just at that instant Means 
snored again. Then Satan made his move, thrust¬ 
ing the three-tined pitchfork of temptation sharply 
into Mark’s soul. The blast which Mark blew was 
like that of Gabriel’s trumpet. It might not have 
awakened the dead—it would be going too far to say 
that—but it certainly shattered the silence with 
startling effect. Many a Quaker jumped, and he 
who slept almost leaped from his seat, with a full- 



QUAKER MEETING 


129 


voiced ejaculation of a shocking nature. Means 
turned, glared at the perpetrator of the outrageous 
act and, followed sheepishly by M*r. Hibbard, strode 
out of the building. 



CHAPTER XII 


THE CAMP 

Disgrace; utter, ineffable! 

Many of Mark’s breaches of Quaker law and 
custom might be excused, but his latest act was, on 
the face of it, too shockingly deliberate; in his 
neighbors’ eyes—or ears—nothing less than a prof* 
anation of God’s House. He realized it before the 
echoes had died away. The involuntary smile, 
which had sprung to his lips with the startling suc¬ 
cess of his performance, faded swiftly. His head 
was light and dizzy from the force of his violent ex¬ 
halation, and it seemed to him as though he were 
looking upon an undulating sea of eyes, all filled with 
the same expression—horror. There was one excep¬ 
tion. Those of Faith Franklyn held pained re¬ 
proach, which was worse. Mark’s behavior had 
really been nothing worse than childish, yet he knew 
that his impulsive act had irretrievably cost him all 
his unexpected popularity, won that morning and 
so briefly enjoyed. 

Some of the children had laughed again, and been 
hushed into silence by their mortified mothers, but 
David was still spasmodically giggling. Mark saw 

Friend Dyer Dexter glare at the boy. He read the 

130 


THE CAMP 


131 


man’s thoughts, and wished that the chastisement 
which he was mentally meting out to David might 
fall upon himself. 

Shame and self-disgust overwhelmed him. On 
the instant he decided that Content should see the 
last of him to-morrow. Yes, he would accept the 
Bull’s proposal. Why not? Every one would 
say, “good riddance.” Well, perhaps not every 
one. His father and Sister Patience might miss 
him a little, for he knew that they loved him, but 
their first moments of unhappiness must soon yield 
to a real relief. Faith? The thought of her 
brought a deeper stab of self-commiseration. She 
might mourn for him, a little, but he strengthened 
his will with the thought that his sacrifice was in part 
for her good. It would be better for her if she 
should never see him again. He was marked for 
evil, and might as well quit fighting against himself 
and go completely to the bad. There was self-pity 
and a degree of comfort in that thought! And 
more in the one that he would be done with futile 
struggling, and could follow his natural bent. 

The long hour of worship crept by; the meeting 
ended. Mark was the first to leave, and he hurried 
a little way apart so that none might speak to him 
even if any should desire to do so, which was not 
likely. Much sooner would they have taken a leper 
by the hand, he thought. 

He saw Faith come out and pause, to look 
around as though seeking some one. Mark’s heart 



132 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


leaped a little, but he sternly stilled its action; of 
course he could not be the one she sought. But he 
was wrong, for she longed to speak to him and 
thank him again for saving them. Jeremiah, who 
had not gone inside, awoke from his doze and drove 
the Prophet from the open-faced shed to the road. 
Dyer Dexter was on hand to assist the girl into the 
carry-all, and Mark was too miserable to feel the 
pangs of jealousy, although he grew hot when the 
man lifted David to the high seat. He imagined 
that he gave the lad a furtive shake in mid-air. At 
least David gingerly rubbed his arms as he sat 
meekly down. 

John Gray and Sister Patience came down the 
road, and Mark slipped from his place of semi-con¬ 
cealment behind a tree and fell in with them. They 
did not speak, but their silence was like a stinging 
lash to his soul. When they reached the gate he 
paused and touched the elder man almost timidly 
upon the arm. 

“Father,” he said, in a humble voice. “I know 
that I have grievously sinned again. There is no 
excuse that I can make to thee, but ... I am very 
unhappy. Dost thou mind if I walk for a time? 
Perchance alone I can find heart to wrestle with 
mine adversary anew.” 

The other bowed his head and held open the gate 
for Patience to pass in. There were tears in her 
downcast eyes. The smith followed, and closed the 
gate. 



THE CAMP 


133 


But what youth in his early twenties, who is well, 
strong, and full of life, can stride across spring¬ 
time fields, soft and green and decked with flowers, 
while the birds are bursting their hearts with melo¬ 
dious song, and keep his mind fixed on doleful 
introspection ? Certainly it was not within the 
power of Mark Gray! He meant to do so, and suc¬ 
ceeded, for a time. But sunshine banishes inner 
as well as outward shadows; it is the great antiseptic 
for mental as well as physical ills. 

He had fully intended to subject himself to the 
sternest moral discipline—the idea of going straight 
to the devil had not long been able to withstand the 
assault of his Quaker conscience—but within a few 
minutes his thoughts were wandering afield. After 
all, might he not yet redeem himself ? If Faith would 
only pardon him, and give a word of encourage¬ 
ment, all would be well. He might yet hold his own 
wayward youth up as a warning to his children— 
and her’s! What is imagination for, if not to 
assist those in the springtime of life to build castles- 
to-be; and, as winter draws nigh, to help man 
reconstruct in dreams the scattered stones of fallen 
hopes ? 

Mark’s thoughts flew before him to cluster, like 
homing pigeons, about the Franklyn farmhouse, 
and his feet unconsciously turned thitherwards, al¬ 
though he had no real intention of visiting it—then. 
The hour was not propitious. Nevertheless, when 
he topped a gentle rise, and saw it below him, nes- 




134 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


tied picturesquely amid trees hoary with years and 
flowers in the first bloom of life, his pace quickened. 
Then he brought himself to an abrupt stop. There 
came the familiar physical symptoms which, with 
him, always accompanied an anger impulse. 

For in front of the gate stood an automobile, the 
same car which he had seen before the Meeting 
House! Three diminutive figures stood beside it, 
and Mark recognized them all—the two strangers, 
and Faith. What could it mean? A sense of jeal¬ 
ousy and of wrath at the man’s utter presumption 
joined to urge him forward, and an unnamed fear 
lent wings to his feet. His walk became almost a 
run as he covered the intervening distance with long 
strides. 

Mark reached the road a few rods from the gate, 
and vaulted the fence. The sound caused the three 
in conversation to glance up and turn towards him, 
and the expression of each indicated that his arrival 
was not without surprise and a deeper meaning for 
them. Mr. Hibbard grinned a little in recollection 
of what had gone before, but it was clear that he 
was not entirely at ease. Nor was Means, who 
looked annoyed; nor Faith, whose countenance 
showed various feelings. As Mark drew near, the 
girl smiled, however, and spoke simply. 

“I had scarcely expected to see thee, Friend Mark; 
but, as it happeneth, thou hast come at a good time, 
for I know not what answer to make these gentle¬ 
men. You see, I have no menfolk to advise me, 



THE CAMP 


135 


and I was on the point of going to ask Friend Dyer 
Dexter. . . 

“Nay. That is not necessary,” Mark interrupted 
hastily. “If chance hath made me of service to thee, 
Sister Faith, I am only too glad. What . . . ?” 

Robert Means appeared still more annoyed, but 
his companion stepped quickly forward and held 
out his hand, saying, “I agree with Miss . . . Miss 
Franklyn, isn’t it? . . . that your coming is oppor¬ 
tune, for undoubtedly a friend’s advice will be of 
assistance to her. My name is Hibbard, and this 
is my friend and companion, Mr. Robert Means— 
both of Philadelphia.” The latter acknowledged the 
introduction with a curt nod of his head. “And if 
I’m any sort of a guesser, you are the young man 
of whom Mr. Durham, sometimes called ‘the Bull,’ 
spoke to us in such glowing terms. He told me to 
look you up—if you really are the one, the chap 
who runs the garage?” 

Mark’s dark looks disappeared and he grasped 
the speaker’s hand warmly. Mr. Hibbard was ob¬ 
viously frank and trustworthy, and if he were a 
friend of the big-hearted wrestler he could not be 
so bad. 

“It is rather a coincidence,” continued Hibbard. 
“Before I met Mr. Durham, I had my plans made 
to come to Content this week. You see, I’m a 
civil engineer and am working for the B. &. O. As 
you may know, the railroad is planning a branch 
to run through this valley, and my job is to make 




136 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the preliminary surveys. I persuaded Mr. Means to 
come along as a camping companion—the ‘Bull’ 
suggested it, for he is really his friend, and Mr. 
Means hasn’t been altogether well.” 

“Yea, verily I understand now,” broke in Mark. 
“That is a tent in the back of thy car, is it not?” 

“Exactly. We’ve been scouting around for a 
good place to pitch it, you see, and the hillside over 
there struck us as made to order for a camp-site. 
There’s nothing better than a pine grove, you know, 
and a brook at the foot of the hill gives us running 
water.” 

Mark nodded. He liked this young man, and was 
really becoming interested in his problem. If the 
other had not been along. . . . He turned, abruptly, 
and said, “Friend Means, I owe thee an apology. 
Of a verity I can make no excuse for what I did 
in the Meeting House. It ... it just came out.” 
He was very red of face and stammered forth his 
words. 

Mr. Hibbard laughed. “It did. That’s no joke. 
I can understand, for I’m a bit of a kid, myself; 
but I’ll bet that you’re going to catch it from some 
of those present—or I’m no judge of human nature. 
Come, Bob. The young man is holding out the 
olive branch; it’s up to you to kiss and make up. 
Besides, you owe him a hanged sight more serious 
amends.” 

Means answered, shortly, “I do, and I make them 
now. We’re square in that respect, sir, and I shall 



THE CAMP 


137 


be glad to . . . er . . . reimburse you for the dam¬ 
age I unwittingly caused to your . . . er . . . gar¬ 
ments, for it seems that you injured them stopping 
a horse which I, unknowingly, frightened.” 

“Nay, it was nothing. Thou owest me nothing.” 
Mark flushed still more deeply. Faith looked happy. 
A great weight had been lifted from her heart by 
Mark’s frank declaration and the acceptance of his 
apology. He was not evil; no one who would so 
bravely acknowledge a fault could be sinful at heart. 
She had her gratitude to express, but not until the 
strangers had departed. 

“All hunky dory,” remarked Mr. Hibbard, mer¬ 
rily. “But this isn’t helping Miss Franklyn. We 
ran across the . . . the gentleman who was driving 
her carriage this morning—he of the wig, you know 
—and learned from him that the spot we have set 
our hearts upon belongs to this young lady. Hence 
our presence here, and our present request that she 
grant us permission to use it for a week or ten days. 
Of course it goes without saying that we shall pay 
for the privilege—we would accept it under no other 
condition. Won’t you say a good word in our 
behalf? I can assure you that we are law-abiding 
and respectable.” 

Mark turned towards the girl with a look of in¬ 
quiry. 

“I know not what to say, Mark. Surely I would 
like to oblige them, but I have never had such a 
request before,” she said in some perplexity. Mr. 



138 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Hibbard casually stepped back to the machine and 
Means followed him, leaving the other two free to 
discuss the matter in private. Lowering her voice 
a little, Faith hurried on, “They appear to be gentle¬ 
men, and they have offered to pay me a sum even 
larger than I could think of accepting—and thou 
knowest that I can ill-afford to refuse an opportunity 
to make all I can for . . . for the children’s sake.” 

“Yea, I know, Faith. If only . . .” Mark 
stopped himself. It. was no time for him to declare 
that which was in his heart, and he felt himself 
drawn between conflicting thoughts. He knew that 
the girl sadly needed the money which she could 
make by renting the camp-site, and there might well 
be not the slightest danger from her doing so. The 
strangers would be in the neighborhood, at any 
event. But, in spite of his impulsive liking for 
Mr. Hibbard, the fire of his initial hostility towards 
the other still smoldered. His apology had seemed 
to Mark to be from the lips merely, and he had seen 
him look at Faith in a manner which instinctively 
aroused his keen resentment. The former consider¬ 
ation won. 

“I can think of no real reason why thou shouldst 
not accede to their request, Sister Faith,” he an¬ 
swered gravely. “Since they will undoubtedly be 
at their labors all day, they can scarcely bother thee, 
and no harm can result from their occupying the 
place for a brief time.” 

Faith lowered her eyes and the color deepened a 



THE CAMP 


139 


little in her cheeks, as it often did when Mark was 
near. “I am glad that thou approveth, Friend 
Mark,” she said. “I, too, can see no danger from 
it, and it will be much to my financial advantage—al¬ 
though I would not think of that, on the Sabbath. 
Indeed, my chief reason for hesitating was not so 
much on my own account as that of Jeremiah. 
These strangers seem to be gentlemen as I have 
said, but I know his manifold weakness and cannot 
forget what occurred when the other men from the 
city were here, working on the state highway. Dost 
thou remember?” 

She appeared so deeply distressed that Mark had 
to laugh as he responded, “Who in Content doth 
not remember? I do, indeed! Was I not one of 
the mischievous youths who discovered him sound 
asleep in thy father’s farm wagon, the evening that 
the strangers stupefied him with strong drink, and 
removed the oxen from it and hid them?” 

“I thought that perchance thou wert.” Faith 
smiled faintly. “Perhaps it was wicked of thee, 
but it taught him a lesson.” 

The other two turned and glanced at them, as 
Mark’s young laughter rang out gayly. “Never 
shall I forget the expression upon his face when he 
awoke, nor the way he rubbed his eyes and ex¬ 
claimed, ‘My name is Jeremiah Jones, and I work 
for Friend James Franklyn, that’s sartain. And 
now I’ve either found a cart or lost a pair of fine 
oxen and danged if I know which.’ ” 



140 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Mark, thou shouldst not say words like that— 
even to repeat them! The other morning . . . the 
morning when . . .” In utter confusion she 
stopped and turned away to hide her blushes, but 
before he could speak in reply, and he did not know 
how to begin, she hastily reverted to the present 
topic. “Jeremiah is weak, and it appeareth that the 
men of the city have many vices. These two truly 
are not like those workmen, but if they should have 
. . . wine with them . . .” 

“There is little for thee to fear on that score, 
Faith, I think,” broke in the man with some relief. 
“Thou knowest that liquor hath been prohibited in 
this country, now, which is surely a blessing. Nay, 
I should not worry. Nothing is likely to occur 
from their presence to trouble thee, and if aught 
doth thou hast only to send for me.” It was a 
simple statement, sincerely made without bombast, 
and the girl thrilled at it. He had declared himself 
her knight and to his chivalric protection she as 
simply committed herself with the word, “Yea, I 
know Mark, and I thank thee.” 

Faith raised her clear eyes to his, for an instant, 
and Mark felt like a new man, imbued with the 
spirit of a sacred trust. He mentally vowed that he 
would, from that moment on, be worthy of her 
words of confidence and the look which had ac¬ 
companied them. The formal restraint of many of 
his neighbors often irked him, but not the sweet 
and natural simplicity of this girl, with whom it 



THE CAMP 


141 


was never a cloak worn in conformity with Quaker 
custom, but rather an outward expression of inward 
nature. “I know, Mark, and I thank thee.” Such 
words from the lips of Faith Franklyn held a world 
of meaning; far more than any amount of fervent 
protestation from the average woman. 

The die was cast. She turned towards Mr. 
Hibbard and said, “I have decided. Thou mayest 
place thy camp upon the hillside.” 

And so another seed, unwittingly sown by the 
Bull, took root. 



CHAPTER XIII 


THE PLEDGE-AND THE PITFALL 

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Hibbard heartily. As 
he rejoined Faith and Mark he casually drew a 
package of bills from a leather folder and offered 
one of the ten dollar denomination to the girl. She 
shook her head quickly. “When thou art ready 
to depart, thou mayest pay me. I do not charge 
in advance, and besides it is not lawful to tran¬ 
sact business upon the Lord’s day. Perhaps I 
should not have seemed to bargain with thee at all, 
but since you are here without place to lay your 
heads ...” 

Hibbard smiled, boyishly. “We, not you, are 
the offenders. You have gained a good mark on 
St. Peter’s books for, if I correctly remember my 
Sunday-school teaching, we are enjoined to care 
for the stranger.” 

Means broke in with the suggestion, “Perhaps 
the young man will be willing to accompany us and 
give us a hand—for a consideration—in pitching 
the tent. Lord, but it’s warm for this time of year. 
But I forgot. Probably he has similar religous 
scruples.” 

“Assuredly I have,” Mark responded, none too 

142 


PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 143 


graciously. “We, at least, have not wholly for¬ 
gotten the ten commandments, although it would 
seem that those of the city have.” 

“A hit! A palpable hit!” cried Hibbard, “I am 
‘touched,’ too, and admit the error of my ways. 
We are votaries of Baal and worship the golden 
calf, but I think that if I could live here for a while 
I might regain something of the lost simple faith of 
my childhood. I’ve always held that being close 
to nature is being close to God.” 

'‘Verily thou art right, friend. I wish that thou 
mightest stay among us, and win thy way back 
from the broad path which leadeth to destruction 
to that straight and narrow one which leadeth unto 
life.” Faith spoke with the sweet sincerity of her 
kind, and the new-comer flushed a little. All the 
levity had departed from his voice as he answered, 
quitely, “I almost wish that I might, little lady. 
Well, we’ll be on our way. May we have your 
permission to use this gate, for I see that the 
cart path which runs from the barn back across 
the field passes close by our new location?” 

“Assuredly thou mayest use it, whenever thou 
hast need. And since thy tent appeareth heavy, 
I will later send Jeremiah to aid thee in setting it 
up. He is strong, despite his frailty, and . . .” 
her eyes took on the suggestion of a twinkle, 
“ he is not of our faith, alas.” 

“Nor, perhaps, adverse to earning a dollar, even 
on the Sabbath? We are deeply in your debt, and 



144 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


I hope that I may some day repay the obligation, 
Miss Franklyn.” 

“Nay, thou owest me nothing; save that which 
every man oweth his neighbor/' smiled Faith. 

“Are you referring to the eleventh command¬ 
ment?” Means challenged. “You see I, too, went 
to church once.” 

The girl grew red, and Mark white and suddenly 
tense. “I meant . . . good-will,” she answered. 

“For the love of heaven use some judgment,” 
growled Hibbard in an undertone, as he led the way 
back to the car. “That girl isn't the kind for you 
or any man to make a plaything of, and you'll have 
the young giant down on you like a thousand of 
bricks if you don't mind your step, and lay off 
twitting him.” 

“I should worry,” was the other’s airy response, 
and as the car slid past the pair by the gate he 
turned and waved his hand in farewell to Faith, 
obviously ignoring Mark. 

The girl’s eyes turned instinctively upon her com¬ 
panion’s face. The expression thereon terrified 
her, so that she unconsciously stepped back a pace. 
He was very white, his jaw was thrust forward 
like a clinched fist; under lowered lids his eyes 
glinted with flinty light. Conquering herself, she 
returned and laid one hand appealingly on his 
tensed forearm. She could feel the cords like 
vibrating steel wires within it. He laid his own 
hand over her’s, almost crushing it. 



PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 145 


“Mark! Why dost thou look like that? Thou 
frightenest me!” 

“He waved to thee.” 

“Yea. I, too, was displeased for an instant. 
But it was a small thing—perhaps a custom of the 
city that we know of. Surely it was nothing to 
cause thee to appear . . 

“I do not know how I appeared, but I could 
not help it. I’m sorry, Faith, if I caused thee 
further distress, and sorry that I allowed mine 
anger to overcome my self-restraint ... as it 
always doth, it seems.” 

“Oh, Mark, I cannot understand thee! Thou 
art different—different from all other men of 
mine acquaintance. I am disturbed, I know not 
why. One moment thou art so kindly and gentle 
—as when thou art with the children, or dumb 
beasts, all of whom worship thee; the next . . .” 

“I know. As I have told thee before, I cannot 
understand myself.” He groaned, beneath his 
breath, and resting his arms on the gate bent low 
in shame. “Do not praise me for aught. I am 
wholly unworthy; deserving only of the condem¬ 
nation of all men, and especially of thee.” 

“Nay, thou art not! This morning all were 
praising thee for thy bravery and quickness of 
thought and action. I have not yet thanked 
thee. ... I wanted to do so after the meeting, 
but . . .” 

Again he interrupted, with, “Do not thank me. 



146 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Any man would have done the same, if . . . Be¬ 
sides, it was not bravery, but impulse, and really 
no different from the act whereby I startled the wor¬ 
shipers in the Meeting House. Something within, 
yet a force outside of myself, impelled me to do 
both things. It is right that I should be blamed 
for yielding to the incentive which was wrong, 
but why should I be praised for doing that which 
was right, since it required no conscious decision 
on my part? How can a man be justly called 
‘brave,’ if he merely doth that which is natural to 
him and doth not know what fear is? The 
really brave man is he who is afraid and yet goeth 
forward in the face of his fear and performeth 
the task which the command of his officer, his 
conscience, or Fate layeth upon him. Nay, I am 
not brave, Faith. I am weak and easily swayed, 
like a reed shaken by every breeze of impulse.” 

“Thou art too critical of thyself, Mark. But 
I understand how thou feelest—better, I think, 
than any one else; though I know not why I should. 
Oh, if I could help thee!” 

“Don’t, Faith! If thou speakest in that tone I 
cannot endure it, nor long hold myself in check. 
Thou rememberest what I did that other morning 
when I was here. ... I have been too ashamed to 
speak of it before, yet my shame also hath been my 
glory, because . . .” She checked him by her 
hand laid upon his eager lips, and it was all that he 
could do to refrain from seizing and kissing it 



PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 147 


passionately. Very gently she said, “Nay, let us 
not speak of that at all. I ... I think that I 
understand in this case, too, Mark.” 

“Of a verity thou art, an angel, Faith,” cried the 
man. “I have no right to speak to thee of love 
and marriage now—I am wholly unworthy—but 
thou knowest well enough that I do care for thee. 
Nay, I will say it. I love thee madly. Thou 
knowest it, Faith?” 

In the merest whisper came her answer, 
“I ... I think that thou carest, Mark.” 

“It is true. Not that it was a real excuse for 
my behavior then, but . . .” 

Still more softly she answered, “Perhaps it was. 
Hast thou forgotten that the wise King Solomon 
said that one of the three things which he could not 
understand was . . .” 

“What, Faith?” 

“ ‘The way of a man with a maid/ ” Her eyes 
were lifted to his for an instant, but quickly dropped 
again before the burning intensity of his gaze. 
Mark took her unresisting hand once more and 
pressed it close against his breast, but as he did 
not speak she continued, “Perchance thine action 
was somewhat unseemly, but I ... I have long 
since forgiven thee.” 

“Faith.” 

“Yea, Mark.” 

“Thou canst help me, if thou wilt. I do not 
ask thy love—I have need to prove myself more 



148 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


worthy of it, first—but if thou wilt only tell me 
that thou carest a little, and still have faith in me, I 
think that thy words will be like blows of the ham¬ 
mer on the white-hot iron of my will, shaping and 
strengthening it. I have grievous need to conquer 
mine impulses, yet although I often tell myself that 
I am wicked, I do not feel wicked in my heart.” 

“Of course thou art not! If thou wilt only 
strive earnestly to know the will of Our Father,, 
thou canst overcome in all things. That is the 
first precept of our faith, Mark, as it should be of 
all mankind. And I do care and believe in thee.” 
She felt the trembling of his hand upon her’s and 
saw his free arm reach out to embrace her, where¬ 
upon she added, in haste, “Nay, Thou must begin 
to practice self-control now, if thou wouldst have 
me believe that thou art indeed in earnest.” 

Mark released her hand instantly, and stepped 
back, pale and with face set, but smiling a little. 

“I thank thee, Faith. From this moment thou 
shalt be my guardian angel, even though that savors 
of papacy. And I shall win through, for thy sake, 
and then . . .” 

“Nay, for thine own sake, not mine. But . . . 
Oh, Mark, dear Mark, I do love thee.” 

She turned, and fled towards the house. 

The man was almost dazed, as though an over¬ 
powering radiance had suddenly burst upon his 
senses. His heart throbbed with a delight akin to 
pain, and there was a faint ringing in his ears like 



PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 149 


music afar off, but very beautiful. His blood 
had changed to sparkling wine. For a moment he 
stood, yielding his soul to his inner sensations; then 
he sternly checked them and the riotous thoughts 
which they called forth. This was far from keep¬ 
ing his promise, which struck deeper than restraint 
of action, to the very impulses which bred it. So 
keen a pleasure must be wrong! “Oh God, I thank 
thee for her love. Help me; strengthen me; make 
me at last worthy of it,” he prayed, almost aloud. 

Never in all human history had a man charged 
himself with a firmer resolve to act with restraint 
in all things, than Mark at that moment. Never 
had one a clearer pattern to follow in the fulfill¬ 
ment of that resolve. The teachings and precepts 
of his faith, the ever-present example of his neigh¬ 
bors, his whole environment joined to make clear 
and smooth an undeviating course for his spiritual 
feet to follow. But it verily seems as though the 
jade, Fate, were at times given wholly over to 
mischief-making, and took especial delight in pre¬ 
paring pitfalls for those who would walk most up¬ 
rightly with their eyes on the stars. 

Mark started homeward, his heart shouting 
paeans of joy. He passed up the drive and by the 
closed door within the rose-embowered porch—how 
different it appeared to him now! He passed the 
big barn; from its open doorway Jeremiah hailed 
him, and he paused. 

The man came shuffling out, hand extended, and 



150 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Mark grasped it with a pressure that made the 
other wince and brought tears to his bleary weak 
eyes. “Dang your hide, Mark Gray!'’ he ex¬ 
claimed. “Just for that I ain’t a-goin’ to thank you 
for stoppin’ the Prophet this morning—although 
I ain’t sayin’ that I ain’t much obliged. I didn’t 
know that the old reprobate had so much life in 
him. Gosh, but he pulled—thought he’d pull my 
arms plumb out of their sockets. Say, Mark, did 
any one ever tell you that you was wastin’ your 
time, here? You’d ought to be one of them movie 
actors, that's what you’d ought to be, boy. I 
reckon you ain’t never seen a movie, have you? 
Too bad. This village is dead; been dead all its 
life. I seen a movie show when I was in Philly, 
a while back—a rip-snorter. That’s real life for 
you; life and romance—there ain’t neither one nor 
t’other, here. Danged if I know how I stand it! 
There was a feller in one of the pictures I seen that 
done just what you done this mornin’, only he was 
on hossback, a cowboy—it was a wild west picture. 
Gee, but he was a hero, he could ride and fight and 
shoot and . . . and everything, and I’ll bet that 
you could, too, if somebody’d larn you, and you’re 
a danged sight better lookin’ than this Hart feller 
was. I’ll tell you the whole story some day, maybe, 
but anyway he saved the girl like you done, and he 
married her, too. That’s life for you, I say.” 

Mark, with mild amusement, had been listening 
to the man run on, but at the conclusion of his 



PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 151 


story he thrilled a little. Was it life, and would 
it follow, even in Content ? Most devoutly he hoped 
so. 

With a conscious laugh he responded, “I guess 
that I am no movie hero, Jeremiah, but . . . Well, 
never mind.” 

“Oh, you can’t fool me, with your ‘never minds/ 
my son. I ain’t so blind that I can’t see through 
a hole in the fence. And I think Faith’s goin’ to 
fall for you, although I’ll tell you frankly that 
she’s a danged sight too good for you or any man.’’ 
He grinned, and the expanse of alternating tooth 
and space grew still broader as Mark grew more 
and more red. The youth turned and fled from 
him, whereupon Jeremiah burst into cackling 
laughter. 

So Jeremiah understood! Mark loved and was 
loved, and at least one other knew and sympa¬ 
thized. Great happiness took full possession of him, 
banishing every other thought. The possible diffi¬ 
culties in his path to the consummation of his hope, 
his own short-comings and present disgrace had 
no place in his mind; his soul was a well filled with 
pure water, reflecting no shadow, but only the un¬ 
blemished blue of the sky above. He rejoiced in 
the broad spaces of the meadowland which he was 
traversing; the fenced-in road could not have held 
his winging thoughts nor yet his buoyant feet. 
The spring grass had never felt so soft to his tread 
nor appeared so verdant to his eyes. The heavens 



152 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


had never looked so radiantly clear. A thrush 
started upward from a tuft of grass, winging sky¬ 
ward and singing as it went. He wanted to sing, 
too, and run and leap. 

The winding brook, the one which flowed past 
the foot of the hill upon which the city men were 
to pitch their camp and where they were already to 
be seen unpacking their machine, barred his course. 
It seemed to laugh with him as it rippled by, 
merry and free. At the spot where his homeward 
path crossed it the little stream was some six yards 
in breadth. It narrowed on either hand, but what 
was such a watery obstacle to Mark’s soaring 
thoughts and sinewy thews? Merely a challenge! 
Besides, he had set out to conquer all obstacles 
which beset his way. 

Mark had already started to run—forgetful of 
the fact that it was the Sabbath—and he measured 
the distance with his eye, and leaped mightily. His 
feet landed on the further bank, both together. 
Then the pitfall. The grassy verge of the stream 
caved beneath his weight, and as he fell forward 
his legs went knee-deep into the water, while mud 
and new loam smeared his pantaloons almost waist- 
high. 

From up on the hillside came faintly to his ears 
the mocking laugh which he had heard once before 
that day. 

Rage repossessed Mark for just a moment. 
Then he, too, laughed. After all, his behavior and 



PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 153 


mishap had alike been ludicrous, and to-day he 
could well smile over it. His somewhat rueful 
smile vanished, however, when he recollected the 
fact that his second and last remaining pair of 
trousers had been rendered temporarily hors de 
combat, and with it came the realization that he 
would have to move most circumspectly to reach 
home unseen. If any dweller in Content should 
catch sight of him, thus, on the Sabbath day . . .! 
Mark made a wide detour and covertly approached 
the back door of his house, unobserved. 

After the three members of John Gray’s house¬ 
hold had departed from the Meeting House, sev¬ 
eral of the venerable Friends had, prompted by 
Dyer Dexter, remained in a group by the roadside 
for the purpose of discussing, with shaking heads 
and shocked looks, Mark’s latest breech of Quaker 
decorum. It is axiomatic of Quaker worship that, 
although there is no duty laid on any one to partici¬ 
pate in spoken prayer or praise, every worshiper 
is personally responsible for the maintenance of 
the right spiritual atmosphere during meeting time. 
The young man had seriously and apparently with 
deliberation outraged that sacred hour, and the 
little conclave proceeded to discuss the incident sol¬ 
emnly. Had it stood alone they might have been 
charitable, but it was merely the latest in a long 
series of scandalous incidents in which Mark had 
figured, to the spiritual—and sometimes material— 



154 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


discomfiture of his neighbors. Ill news travels 
on speeding wings and Dexter had sped many mes¬ 
sengers bearing the story of how he had seen the 
youth at the smithy, rolling upon the ground in 
vicious physical conflict with the city man. 

The time for mere silent censure had passed; 
something must be done, something drastic. Mark 
had verily made himself a subject for serious dis¬ 
cussion at the next Monthly Meeting. And John 
Gray must be advised of that fact! 

The informal committee had, for some time, been 
closeted with the smith. Friend Dyer Dexter had 
gone straight to the point; a disagreeable duty had 
best be squarely faced! 

“We have come to speak of Mark Gray, Friend 
John,” he had said, talking through his nose. 

“Yea?” 

“Yea, verily. We know that thou hast labored 
long and with commendable patience with the young 
man, doing all that lay within thy power—albeit, 
perhaps, with a Christian forebearance beyond what 
the law requires—and that thou art more to be 
pitied than blamed because Mark is not . . 

John Gray had checked him with a gesture, and 
answered sorrowfully, “Nay, the burden is wholly 
mine to bear, and I make no excuses if I have failed 
in my duty toward the lad. I know how often he 
hath erred through impulse, and to say that I— 
that we —can explain those impulses is not to con- 



PLEDGE—AND PITFALL 155 


done them. But this thing I do know, as none other 
knows it. He is not evil at heart, but honor¬ 
able and tender, and often shame layeth a heavy 
hand upon his soul because of his acts.” 

“That may well be—I trust that it is indeed so, 
for he hath cause for much disquietude of mind,” 
Dexter had responded with a puritanical sternness. 
“But there are others than himself to be considered. 
The entire village hath been repeatedly offended by 
his frequent lapses from seemly conduct—such as 
that which occurred within the hour. And there 
are the youths who, because he is strong and a 
leader by nature, look up to and even emulate him, 
in so far as they dare. Nay, we dislike to hurt 
thee, but Mark Gray hath become a festering sore 
within our body politic, and . , .” 

John Gray’s countenance had paled and his heavy 
jaw set in a manner to warn almost any one. But 
when he spoke in reply his voice had been calm 
and unruffled. “The youth is not bad, Friend 
Dyer. He fully realizes his own shortcomings, 
and is fighting valiantly to conquer them and, 
despite what happened this morning, I can say with 
assurance that he is beginning to mend his ways. In 
fact, I feel that I can vouch . . .” 

The speaker stopped in the middle of his sen¬ 
tence. For his eyes had at that moment fallen 
upon Mark, through the side window, as he cau¬ 
tiously made his way towards the kitchen door. 
Wet to his waist, muddy and bedraggled, hat off 



156 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and wavy hair clinging in ringlets to his damp 
forehead, the lad made a picture startling enough 
to interrupt any speech. 

The others within the room glanced up in sur¬ 
prise, and John Gray hastily collected himself 
and continued, in even tone, “ . . . can vouch that 
the time will yet come when you, and all in Con¬ 
tent will be glad to call him ‘Friend/ We know 
the fountainhead of his manifold temptations; we 
know, too, that there is a Power which can supply 
him with the strength to overcome them. Let us, 
therefore pray for him, with bowed heads and 
closed eyes.” 

Even at that moment the smith was praying 
fervently, praying that that Omnipotent Power 
would prevent Mark from entering the room. He 
fell upon his knees and the rest, more slowly, fol¬ 
lowed his lead. 

And into this silent group, an instant later, 
burst Mark, smiling with relief because he had 
gained the refuge of his own home unseen, and 
blithely humming—without realization that he was 
doing it—“Oh, by gee, by gosh, by gum, by Jove.” 




CHAPTER XIV 


TEMPTATION 

The morning sun shone down upon the tent of 
the camping pair, but whereas it was brightly re¬ 
flected in the healthy glow on Hibbard’s face, re¬ 
freshed by slumber, it merely accentuated the finely 
graven lines of weariness on that of his companion. 
Means’ first night in “the wilderness”—as he 
called it—had not been a conspicuous success, and 
he was out of sorts. His back, used to box mat¬ 
tresses, had found the canvas topped cot an in- 
iquisitioner’s bed and ached in many an unsus¬ 
pected muscle. He was naturally fastidious about 
his food, especially in the morning when a jaded 
appetite needed to be coaxed and wheedled to per¬ 
form at all, and greasy bacon and boiled coffee, thick 
with grounds, had been insult added to injury. Hib¬ 
bard had been obliged to “take it,” from the moment 
of their arising—which, unfortunately, he had pro¬ 
claimed in army fashion, just when Mr. Robert 
Vandervetter Means was enjoying the delightful 
drowse which so provokingly comes just at dawn, 
after a wakeful night. 

Now he was standing before the raised flap of 
the tent, smoking an after-breakfast cigarette, and 
letting his moody eye roam over the pleasant 

i57 


158 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


country-side, until it rested on the Franklyn farm. 
His face assumed a more animated expression. 
Whatever his thoughts may have been, they were 
rudely interrupted by his comrade, who remarked in 
the jovial tone which he was, with an effort, affect¬ 
ing. “Well, Bob, how does it seem to be a labor¬ 
ing man again—perhaps I should have put it, ‘for 
once in your life’ ?” 

“For heaven’s sake stop scraping that knife 
against the bottom of that frying pan—it sets my 
nerves on edge!” exclaimed Means, irritably. 
“What do you mean, ‘laboring man’? I thought 
that I was supposed to have come to this God¬ 
forsaken dump for a rest.” 

“A change, old fellow. Your life has been one 
long, sweet, restful song to date—and see what it’s 
done to you! No, sir. You tearfully promised 
your wrestling friend to turn over a new leaf—a 
whole flock of new leaves, in fact—and begged me, 
almost on bended knee, to make you do it.” 

“I was drunk.” 

“I suspected the same. But the fact, and my 
promise, stands. Have you forgotten that you’re 
down on the company’s books as my chain boy for 
this job? You suggested it yourself and, since 
you wouldn’t allow me to bring any other assistant, 
you’ve got to come through. Besides, it was to 
have been share and share alike in the camp work. 
Remember that?” 

Means scowled, and growled, “Damn. Yes, I 



TEMPTATION 


159 


have a hazy recollection of making a fool of my¬ 
self that night. I’d got myself intoxicated to a 
state where I was fairly maudlin, and an easy mark 
for the Bull’s prophetic utterances regarding the 
dire things which would happen to me if I should 
keep on leading my natural life. ‘Oh, that men 
should put an enemy into their mouths, to steal 
away their brains.’ ” 

The other laughed at him. “To my way of 
thinking you’re wiser drunk than sober, Bob. 
Your ‘natural’ life is utterly artificial. Your 
‘lights’ are out, and your liver is dead—as you will 
be soon, if you don’t cut out wine, woman and 
song.” 

“Well, I might consider the elimination of sing¬ 
ing from my repertoire,” grinned Means. 

“Old stuff. Look here, Bob, I’m serious about 
this. You’re a good fellow, at heart, and have a 
more .than ordinary amount of gray matter, but 
what good does it do you, or the world? Perhaps 
you’ll say that it’s none of my infernal business— 
that the Biblical injunction about being your 
brother’s keeper is as out of date as the Ten Com¬ 
mandments, but . . . Oh, hang it all, give your¬ 
self a chance. Cut out the booze and . . . and 
the needle. I’ve seen the scars on your left fore¬ 
arm, my friend,” he added, significantly. 

“Thanks! You quite touch me.” Means’ tone 
was scathingly sarcastic. “Between you and our 
Quaker friends I shall probably become too good 




160 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


to be true, during the next fortnight, and ‘mine old 
familiar haunts' will know me no more. And now 
let’s talk about something else. I’ve apparently 
got myself in Dutch, but I’ll go through and work 
out my self-imposed penance, thereby teaching my¬ 
self a salutory lesson against the future. What’s 
my job? Wise me up—as the Bull would say, in 
his cultured speech.” 

“You’ll receive your elaborate instructions in 
holding a surveyor’s rod when we get into the field, 
and I want to make an early start this morning. 
Meanwhile, lend a hand here, in penance for your 
many sins, and bury this nice garbage.” 

“What’s the use? Throw it out behind a bush, 
somewhere, and let the birds be our scavengers.” 

“And you call yourself a camper! Do you want 
all the flies in .Content camping here, too?” 

“All right. You’re boss, I suppose. Hand it 
over.” Keeping his eyes averted from the panful 
of perfectly fresh scraps, Means walked a little way 
from the tent. There he stopped, and his look 
brightened again. It was close to a quarter of a 
mile from the spot to the Franklyn farmhouse, yet 
his eyes had caught sight, of three marionette forms, 
whom he recognized as Faith and the two children, 
walking together down the drive to the road. He 
unceremoniously tossed the refuse into a bush and 
scaled the pan back towards the t,ent. Then he 
headed for his car, calling out over his shoulder, “I 
say, Jack, we developed a knock in the engine, com- 



TEMPTATION 


161 


ing down, and since we’ll need the car to run over to 
the village for mail and provisions I had better have 
it examined and the tank refilled with gas. Be back 
inside of half an hour, old top, and you can be look¬ 
ing over the lay of the land.” 

Hibbard uttered a bit of profanity under his 
breath. He had already begun to wish, fervently, 
that he had not yielded to the soft-hearted impulse 
which prompted his suggestion that Means become 
his companion for the trip. He stepped to the tent 
opening 1 and called, “Can’t that wait until . . .” 
The ending of his sentence was suddenly drowned 
out in the roar of the racing motor. It was 
throttled down, and the machine moved bumpily off 
across the field towards the cart path. 

“Damn!” said the surveyor explosively, and re¬ 
turned to his work. 

David was going to school; Faith to market, as 
the big basket on her arm proclaimed; little Hope 
was to walk only to the gate and then return to the 
doubtful watching of Jeremiah in the garden. They 
had all reached the highway when Means’ car 
coasted down the steep drive and was brought to 
a stop beside them. Its owner leaned out and ex¬ 
claimed, with a fine show of surprise, “Why, Miss 
Franklyn. I hardly expected to see you up, and out, 
at this hour of the morning.” 

Faith had been a little startled by his sudden ap¬ 
pearance, but his words brought the shadow of a 



162 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


smile to her lips. “Dost thou, then, call this early ?” 
she responded. “Nay I have been up for two 
hours, and am much delayed in starting for the 
village, because . . .” She checked herself, but 
David promptly supplied the true ending to her 
sentence, saying, “The old Prophet hath gone lame 
—he strained a leg or something when he almost 
ran away yesterday. Thou art to blame for it, 
Jeremiah saith.” 

“Really? I am more than sorry, and shall cer¬ 
tainly insist upon paying for his disability, Miss 
Franklin.” 

“Nay, I cannot . . .” 

“But I insist. It is only just that I should. 
Surely you were not intending to walk all the way 
to the village, and perhaps bring back some 
bundles!” 

“Why not? It is but a little distance—only a 
mile and a half by the short cut. I walk it almost 
daily,” said the girl. 

“But not to-day. I am on my way there and 
shall be delighted to take you—all of you, of 
course. I am fortunate to have run into you, like 
this—figuratively speaking; I came altogether too 
near to doing the actual thing, yesterday. You’re 
off to market, I should judge, and I for gasoline, 
since cars like human beings need their appointed 
sustenance.” 

Faith’s distress was apparent. She started a 
hesitating refusal, not knowing how to decline 





TEMPTATION 


163 


courteously, and Mr. Means interrupted with, “Of 
course you can come! The little lad is sufficient 
chaperon, if such were needed, which is not the 
case with near neighbors/’ He laid his hand on 
David’s shoulder, and the boy promptly squirmed 
away. He did not like the man, but the lure of the 
machine was over-powering and he cried, “Why 
can we not go in it, sister Faith? And take the 
boxes of vegetables, too? Thou saidst, this morn¬ 
ing, that unless thou couldst get up courage enough 
to ask Friend Dyer Dexter for the loan of pokey 
old Ned, we would lose some of the money that 
we so sorely need to make both ends meet. And 
Hope can go, too, and come back with you. That’ll 
stop her crying.” 

“I wathn’t cryin’,” insisted his small sister, 
stoutly. 

Faith had colored richly during David’s naive 
remarks, and her eyes had taken on an expression 
of deeper distress which only added to the sweet 
appeal of her face. Again she would have refused, 
but Means took swift advantage of the opening 
thus presented, although the idea of loading his 
perfectly appointed touring car with garden truck 
stole something from the anticipation of a com¬ 
panionable drive to and from the village. “Of 
course you must let me take you, and the boxes as 
well, Miss Franklyn. I owe it to you. Besides, 
it is really your Christian duty fo accept my invita¬ 
tion, for I’m afraid that I am not often prompted 



164 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 

to do a neighborly act, and if you should refuse, 
I would feel that my single seed of kindness had 
fallen on barren ground, and be tempted never to 
sow another.” 

Robert Means there proved himself a diplomat 
as well as a courtier. The still small voice within 
Faith’s heart, which had been reiterating, “No, no, 
no,” grew silent. The several practical reasons 
which had been arguing strongly against her desire 
—for she had never ridden in a motor car—was 
now routed by this challenge to her religion.. And 
what possible harm could there be in it,—especially 
with both children along? David was already on 
the running board and fingering the spotless enamel 
about the door handle, to Means’ secret agony. 

As a final concession to conscience, she faltered, 
“I’m afraid that . . .” 

“You need not be,” interrupted the man, laughing 
pleasantly. “I may appear .a bit reckless, at times, 
but I have the reputation for being a skillful driver, 
and will promise to substantiate it now, and add 
caution -thereto. We’ll be either the hare or the 
tortoise at your command.” 

He was already holding the front door invitingly 
open and . . . Faith entered. The two children 
scrambled gayly in behind them, whereupon David 
commanded, “Drive back to the barn and I’ll get 
Jeremiah to load her up. Gee . . . Oh, I didn’t 
mean to say that, sister Faith . . . this is great. 
Although I wish it was a red car, like . . .’’ 



TEMPTATION 


165 


“I with it wath blue,” put in little Hope. 

In the blackened smithy Mark Gray was seeking 
and finding a moiety of relief for his burdened 
heart in strenuous labor. Disgrace lay like a dark 
mantle upon him. The worst had happened, despite 
all his high promises to self. Dyer Dexter -had 
had his way. He—Mark Gray, son of the man 
esteemed by all in Content—was to be disciplined 
at the next monthly; perhaps formally driven out 
from the Society and, necessarily, from the village. 
All his immediate neighbors knew it, already. 
Faith would know it the instant that she arrived 
with her farm produce for market. Every hoof- 
beat upon the hard roadway struck dismay into his 
heart, but none of them had yet been those of the old 
Prophet. Why? Surely she was very late, and 
David would be tardy in getting to school. 

He was blowing for the smith, and the big bel¬ 
lows closed and expanded so forcefully, under the 
impelling of his strong arm, that the chimney 
roared and the sparks flew from the charcoal fire in 
clouds. There was a fascination in watching them, 
and seeing how many he could start skyward at a 
time—the age-old appeal of the fire to the Norman 
viking blood within his veins. But even this way 
of temporary forgetfulness was quickly closed to 
him, for his father remarked, mildly, ‘Thou art 
wasting the coals, my son. Perhaps I had better 
blow, and thou strike, for a time.” 



166 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


Mark came back from his dreams to realization 
of the present, and without a word exchanged 
work with the smith. Fo.r a moment all went well. 
Then he chanced to look out through the smithy 
do’or . . . and his lifted hammer crashed down 
upon the red-hot horseshoe which he was shaping, 
with such force that it flew into two sections. 
Wrath clouds veiled his face and, in his black 
leathern apron and mighty bared arms, to which 
the glow of the fire imparted a coppery sheen, he 
appeared like a youthful Thor, preparing to hurl 
a thunderbolt. 

John Gray looked up, amazed. Then his eyes 
likewise turned to the roadway and beheld what 
Mark had seen—Faith, riding past in the automo¬ 
bile of the city stranger. 

He, too, scowled, but said quickly, “Mark! Oh 
lad, again?” 

Mark did not this time respond, but sternly 
turned his back to the doorway and took up 
another iron from the glowing coals. It 
was no hotter than his heart, which was too 
fully charged for expression. This was the last 
straw. 

Never had a man of temper been put to a more 
severe test than he, a few moments later, when 
the motor car drove into the yard with its owner 
in sole possession, and Means called out to him 
imperatively, “I say, young man, fill my tank up 
with gas, will you, and if you know anything about 



TEMPTATION 


167 


machinery see if you can discover what’s knocking 
in the engine.” 

And never did a man of temper control himself 
more completely than did Mark, as he stepped out¬ 
side, and answered evenly, “Very well. How much 
gasoline dost thou desire?” 

“How much? How the devil do I know? Fill 
up the tank, and see that your arithmetic is accurate. 
Ill be back for the car in a quarter of an hour.” 
Means slid from his seat and brusquely departed in 
the direction of Dyer Dexter’s General Merchan¬ 
dise store, upon the porch of which Mark could 
see Faith and little Hope. David had disappeared; 
the school-house had swallowed him. 

Moving somewhat like an automaton, his will a 
mechanical thing directed by another, Mark began 
his commanded task. He removed the front seat 
to get at the opening to the tank, and a leather- 
covered pocket flask, with silver top and mountings, 
which had been thrust out of sight between it and 
the side, fell to the flooring. Surprised, the young 
man picked it up, and shook it gingerly. It had 
not been broken, fortunately, and gave forth a 
liquid sound. 

What prompted Mark to examine it further the 
Saints—or Satan—alone know, but examine it he 
did, with curiosity. A twist of his fingers and the 
monogramed top was off it. He carried the 
bottle to his nose, and sniffed. His nostrils reg¬ 
istered a scent which was strange and potent. Cer- 



168 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


tainly he had never smelled its like before, yet he 
was sure that it was liquor and surmised that it 
was whiskey—as, in fact, it was; the best of 
Bourbon. 

Whiskey! It was prohibited by the law of the 
land; it was a strong drink forbidden by the Book 
of God; it was accursed, as a particular invention 
of the Evil One himself, by those of his sect. 
Finally, its presence indicated that Faith’s fears 
regarding these city strangers, which he had de¬ 
clared groundless, were well founded. If this man 
should give some of it to Jeremiah to drink, what 
might not happen! Mark’s anger boiled anew. 
The contents of this bottle should not, at least, be 
the means of tempting him to fall and bring dis¬ 
tress to Faith! 

Strange, the temptation which that liquor held 
for the man—and had held for countless hosts of 
men down through the ages. What was there 
about it to inflame the senses and grip the soul, 
making its victims yield up all things else for its 
sake—wealth, honor, even life? The world-old 
question; what? Eve with the apple from the 
tree of knowledge; Pandora with her mysterious 
casket, whose lid she was forbidden to lift; the 
temptation to know, first hand. Finally, the young 
Quaker, Mark Gray, with the flask of whiskey. 

Mark paused in the act of inverting it. Instinct 
caused him to glance about. His father’s broad 
back was turned, and no one else was now in sight. 



TEMPTATION 


169 


He hesitated, and was lost. A swift movement of 
his arm, and one swallow of the potent liquor was 
in his mouth. But not for long! It felt like fire 
on his tongue; the few drops which ran down his 
throat seemed to sear it; the fumes rose into his 
nose and set him to gagging and coughing. 

The sound caused the smith to turn and, to his 
astonishment, he saw Mark rush to the trough and 
scoop up handful after handful of the murky 
water and fling it into his wide-opened mouth. 
What had got into the youth now? If he had only 
known! 

Mark’s spiritual reaction was as swift as his 
physical one had been, and there was no cooling 
water to take the sting from his conscience. He 
bitterly reviled himself. Temptation was in his 
case, it seemed, something to be yielded to at once. 
What had he not done, save commit murder? Then 
came another flash of resentment against the man 
who had brought liquor into Content. Mark 
smiled, but his countenance was grim. 

He had dropped the flask. Now he picked it up 
and poured out the few remaining drops of liquid 
upon the thirsty earth—a vicarious libation. The 
dust sucked it up. There, it was gone and the 
place thereof should know it no more. Going 
again to the trough, he refilled the flask with water, 
screwed on its top, and returned it to its place in 
the car. 



CHAPTER XV 


FRIEND DYER DEXTER IS STARTLED 

Mr. Robert Vandervetter Means, of Phil¬ 
adelphia, cooled his heels on the porch of the village 
store, owned by Friend Dyer Dexter, for a good ten 
minutes before Faith appeared, with little Hope’s 
hand held tightly in her’s. The girl’s face was al¬ 
most white, but two crimson spots burned hotly on 
her cheeks. Her eyelids were downcast, thereby 
hiding the mist of unshed tears. 

For ten minutes she had, with drooped head and 
clasped hands, been standing and listening to a 
lecture from him who professed to have taken upon 
himself the role of friendly counselor, since she 
had no older man to guide her past the danger 
reefs upon which a young and innocent girl is all 
too-often wrecked. It seems that she had com¬ 
mitted a grievous offense against propriety, espe¬ 
cially against Quaker propriety, that morning. 
Well, Faith had half suspected as much, herself. 
This was a far, far worse thing she had done than 
ever she had done before, although the village had 
found cause to comment upon her undue friendli¬ 
ness with one who had long merited, and was now 

about to receive, the serious consideration of the 

170 


DYER DEXTER STARTLED 171 


Society in Monthly Meeting . . . yea, Mark Gray, 
a light youth, with evil propensities which must 
be sternly dealt with, lest they infect the other 
youth of the village. It was at this point that the 
two red spots had appeared on Faith’s cheeks. 

He, Dyer Dexter, had been greatly grieved and 
pained to observe her . . . er . . . more than oc¬ 
casional lapses from that which was seemly in 
Quaker maidenhood, the more so because he cher¬ 
ished towards her a feeling of brotherly love—as 
was only right and proper in one who was her 
closest neighbor, and who knew the difficulties under 
which she had struggled. 

Indeed, he had for some time been seriously con¬ 
sidering something which might alike make life less 
ardous and less dangerous for her, and he would 
that very evening call at her homestead to discuss 
the matter with her, about seven o’clock. 

In conclusion, what did she desire at the store, 
this morning? 

Faith had been speechless for an instant; some¬ 
thing was choking her throat. At length she had 
managed to stammer, “I . . . I have forgotten, 
Friend Dyer.” 

“Nay, thou cantht not have forgotten, thithter 
Faith,” Hope had corrected. “It wath to thee if he 
had thome blue ribbon—thome bright blue ribbon— 
for my hair.” 

“Sister Faith, surely thou knowest that I carry 
no ribbon of such a hue, with which one might 




172 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


bedeck herself in a manner unbecoming to one of 
our sect, which frowns upon adornment of the 
body, whereby the mind is drawn from the con¬ 
templation of spiritual things to the vanities of 
this world. Thou shouldst be more careful not to 
encourage, by so much as a suggestion, the child¬ 
ish mind in frivolous ideas and the vain pursuit of 
earthly pleasure. My children . . 

“I ... I thank thee, Friend Dyer,” Faith had 
said, and almost run from his austere presence. 

“So, here we are, again. And now, I suppose, 
'to market, to market to buy a fat pig, then home 
again, home again’ . . . not exactly ‘jiggety-jig’ 
in that car of mine,” exclaimed Means, remov¬ 
ing his cap and showing his even white teeth in a 
friendly smile. 

“Nay. I am afraid not. I am sorry, but . . . 
I . . . I . . . cannot ride home with thee.” Her 
response came in little more than a whisper. 

“Not ride home? But why, Miss FranklynP^I 
am going right back. ...” 

“Please! Oh, I cannot; and I cannot explain 
nor tell thee how very sorry . . . and ashamed I 
am. Please forgive me.” With sun-bonneted 
head bowed lower still, in an endeavor to conceal 
her distress, Faith hurried past him down the steps, 
and left him standing bare-headed and staring in 
blank astonishment. But not for long. He turned 
with a scowl at the virtuous figure of Dyer Dexter, 




DYER DEXTER STARTLED 178 


which he could dimly see behind his counter. 
Means was no fool; he might be a frivoler but 
he could add two and two and reach the correct 
result. 

Thrusting his hands into his pockets he strode 
sulkily back to the smithy and vented his spleen on 
Mark. “Three dollars for ten gallons of that 
stuff? Almost thou dost persuade me to become 
a . . . Quaker! It’s plain to be seen that our 
country cousins can give cards and spades to city 
profiteers. ” 

“The sign saith thirty cents a gallon,” Mark 
answered, mildly. 

“All right. Live and learn—but it’ll be a cold 
day before I buy any more gas here! IT1 drive 
ten miles to the next dump first.” 

Smiling, Mark watched him depart, although the 
harsh grinding of gears, as the other angrily 
jerked the gear-lever over, grated upon him. He 
loved a motor. But he had witnessed the little 
drama on the store porch, rightly interpreted the 
significance of the pantomime, and was glad. He 
smiled again as the car passed Faith without 
pausing, and she averted her head. There was 
some balm in Gilead. 

It was Mr. Robert Vandervetter Means’ turn to 
be angry, and be it said—to his credit—that his 
anger was fully as much on account of the girl as 
himself. She had gone into the store grateful to 
him, and certainly with every intention of return- 



174 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


ing home in the machine. She had remained ten 
minutes and come out empty handed, and wearing 
the visible marks of shame. 

“Damn that dried up old fossil,” he muttered. 
“What business is it of his, and what right has he 
got to presume to instruct her in what she shall 
and shall not do, I’d like to know? Now, to save 
her face, I suppose, she’s got to walk all the way 
home and carry a heavy basket.” 

The thought actually bred a germ of pity for 
Faith, and pity is a dangerous thing. So, too, is 
the denial of something which a spoiled child covets 
for the moment; and Means was just that, despite 
his thirty years. If the girl had driven back with 
him the matter might well have had its ending there, 
for, aside from her sweetness of face, there was 
really very little in this child of the country likely 
to attract a man of his caliber for long. He could 
not appreciate the sort of qualities which she pos¬ 
sessed in full measure and which made her nature 
so fine and so strong beneath its exterior of Quaker 
quaintness. But denial always inflames desire— 
and of what earthly use are after “ifs?” 

Means had been merely doing her a kindly favor 
—at least he quickly convinced himself that such 
was the fact—and, as his wrath against Dexter for 
his interference mounted, his nerves, already badly 
frayed by abuse, began to go to pieces. They 
clamored for an artificial soporific, and he stopped 
the machine by the roadside and thrust his hand 



DYER DEXTER STARTLED 175 


down between the cushion and the side. It found 
the flask. Means unscrewed its silver top and took 
a big swallow of its contents. His next movement 
was involuntary; the water was sprayed from his 
mouth and the flask sailed across the road and into 
a clump of bushes. A burst of profanity followed 
it. 

The remaining distance to the Franklyn home¬ 
stead he made in close to a minute and a half. The 
driveway gate was partially open and, scarcely 
diminishing his speed, he swung about and into it. 
The latch inflicted a deep scratch along the glisten¬ 
ing enamel of the tonneau, but he was heedless of 
the fact. 

With his patience rapidly ebbing to low tide, 
Jack Hibbard sat in the opening to the tent, the 
surveying instruments ready at his side. His 
face was dark with scowls and he puffed rapidly 
at an old briar pipe. Bob Means had the social 
graces to make him a delightful city companion 
when he was in the mood to be friendly, but as a 
sole comrade on a camping and working trip he 
promised badly. Well, there he was, at last! 
Hibbard brightened a little, but his heart fell as 
he observed the manner in which the other was 
driving the car up the rut-filled country cart path. 
He must be crazy! The machine came to a stop, 
and Means sprang from it, looking murderous. 

Hibbard tried to speak lightly. “Quick work, old 
man,” he said. 




176 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


‘‘Great joke, wasn’t it? Damned funny!” 
snarled the other. 

Hibbard regarded him with open-mouthed aston¬ 
ishment. 

“Oh, there is no need of your registering injured 
innocence, or looking like a half-wit. What did you 
do with the twelve-dollar-a-quart Bourbon that was 
in that flask?” 

“ ‘Bourbon V ‘Flask ?’ ” repeated the accused 
man, mechanically. 

“You know what I’m referring to, well enough— 
the flask that I had in the machine. You poured 
out the whiskey and filled it up with ditch-water, 
by the taste of it, and a scurvy sort of a joke I 
call it.” 

“So would I; if I’d done it. Although I did 
object to your bringing it,” retorted Hibbard, with 
some heat on his own part. 

“You . . . you didn’t do it? If you’re lying 
out of it . . He took another step forward, 
and clinched his hands. 

“I did not! You’re talking and acting like a 
fool, Bob, though I don’t know yet exactly what 
it’s all about. But if somebody substituted water 
for the whiskey in your flask it certainly was not 
I, and . . 

“Then I know who did do it ... of course it 
must have been he, confound his sneaking Quaker 
soul to the depths of perdition!” 

“Who? What are you driving at, now?” 



DYER DEXTER STARTLED 177 


“That fellow who works at the garage, or the 
smithy or whatever it is—the overgrown cub they 
call Mark somebody. I ordered him to fill the 
tank with gas, and the flask was tucked in beside 
the cushion on the front seat. I’m going to drive 
back there this instant and give him . . 

“You’re going to do nothing of the sort. Come, 
man, get a grip on yourself. If you were crazy 
enough to pitch into him he’d simply knock the 
stuffing out of you—he’s a young giant and as 
strong as a bull; the Bull said so, himself.” 

“Well, he’s a common thief and the law . . 

“ ‘The law,’ indeed! Where do you fit into the 
law, I’d like to know—carting around boot-legged 
booze? You haven’t a leg to stand on, and it 
serves you jolly well right for bringing the stuff. 
You promised to cut it out, anyway, and I’m glad 
that it’s gone,” concluded Hibbard with real feeling. 

“Thanks, awfully, both for your sympathy and 
highly moral lecture!” Means had cooled down a 
little, and his somewhat habitual biting sarcasm had 
taken the place of his raging speech. “As it hap¬ 
pens, it was only a minor loss, as I have a couple of 
bottles more in my grip, and if the knowledge of that 
interesting fact disturbs you, I’m sufficiently recom¬ 
pensed. I tell you this so that I may add the mild 
suggestion that—for your own health’s sake—you 
leave it strictly alone.” 

“Don’t worry, I shall; in every sense of the word. 
Oh, thunder! What’s the use of our getting into a 



178 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


school-boy quarrel like this, the first day out? If it 
gives you any real pleasure to drink yourself to 
death on smuggled booze, go ahead; it’s none of my 
business. But please try to use a little judgment 
while you're with me, and do it like a gentleman. 
If you keep flying off the handle like this, and like¬ 
wise persist in chasing after every good-looking 
Quaker girl—I saw you pick Miss Franklyn up 
in the machine, and it was darned poor business— 
you’ll end by getting both of us into a peck of 
trouble. Don’t be an ass, Bob; for heaven’s sake 
don’t! 

“And now, let’s forget it, and get to work. What 
you need to restore your lost mental and spiritual 
perspective and straighten out your nerves is just 
what the Bull said—fresh air, fresh water, and phys¬ 
ical exercise. Come on.” 

“Perhaps you are right, Jack; I guess you are,” 
answered Means more calmly. “I did fly ofif, a bit 
—the thing got my goat—and . . . well, I apolo¬ 
gize.” He offered his hand and Hibbard took it, 
gladly. “Fact is, my nerves are a bit on edge, I’ve 
been hitting a fairly fast pace for a while. Yep, I 
deserved the call down, and I’ll endeavor to walk the 
straight and narrow while I’m your guest, anyway. 
You’re not a bad scout, Jack.” 

“Let it go at that; I so rarely get a compliment 
that I don’t want that one spoiled. ’Nough said. 
Here, you can tote this stick—make believe that it’s 
a trout rod, if you like; I’ll lug the transit and the 



DYER DEXTER STARTLED 179 


rest of the stuff. They have already pegged out a 
survey to the town line. Come along.” 

With Hibbard in the lead they struck off across 
the fields, which undulated like long ocean swells, 
rich green and flecked with the tinted white spume 
of daisy and clover blossoms. The engineer quickly 
forgot the recent past, and his blue eyes sparkled 
with a back-to-nature delight as he viewed the peace¬ 
ful scene, and took deep breaths of the undefiled air 
with relish. 

“Too bad that so idyllic a pastoral as this has got 
to be spoiled by the raucous note of an engine’s 
whistle and the rumble of wheels on iron rails,” he 
finally remarked. “Of course it’s one of the many 
sad penalties of progress, like that ugly gash there 
on the landscape. Still, the world must have its 
highways, and their builders must get the material 
for them where they can.” He pointed to a glaring 
gravel pit in one of the hillsides ahead. 

As Means’ eyes turned upon the spot his face 
lost some of its moody look. “No, it’s not a thing 
of beauty, but we may get some harmless joy out of 
it, for it’s just the place for an impromptu revolver 
range. You may remember that I challenged you 
to a test of skill during some of our playtimes—your 
army-trained hand against my privately-instructed 
ability.” 

“I had an idea that you were joking, and haven’t 
given it a second thought, Bob. I never carry a 
gatling gun when I’m out in the field.” 




180 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“That makes no never mind, old top. I brought 
along a brace of the smoothest shooting irons you 
ever saw—picked them up in Switzerland, and they 
are as mechanically perfect as a Swiss watch.” 

“All right. I’m more or less of a dub, but I’m 
game. We’ll try them out after supper.” 

It was exactly seven-fifteen. Friend Dyer Dex¬ 
ter was departing from the Franklyn farmhouse 
and his cold, pale face was not pleasant to look upon, 
for his thin lips were closely pressed together and 
his eyes held an angry glint. Nevertheless, when he 
turned to say farewell to Faith, who had accompan¬ 
ied him to the door, his voice was even and passion¬ 
less. 

“I know that it is ever the habit of youth to 
make hasty decision—decisions which are oft re¬ 
pented of later. I bear thee no ill will for what 
thou hast said this evening, Sister Faith—I hope 
that I am too good a Christian for that. More¬ 
over my offer stands. Shouldst thou ever feel that 
thou hast need of me, I shall gladly do my duty 
towards thee, and thou wouldst not be the loser by 
marrying me, for I can offer thee and thy depend¬ 
ents a comfortable home and freedom from the 
worry which poverty inflicts upon the mind.” 

“I can only say, again, that I thank thee, Friend 
Dyer. And I appreciate thy goodness,” answered 
the girl, with a slight tremor in her voice. 

“Yea,” he continued, in a monotone, “My house 



DYER DEXTER STARTLED 181 


shall be a place of refuge for thee and thine against 
the cold winds of this world, whensoever thou wilt. 
But I am bound in duty to myself to make one 
slight condition—that thou hereafter deporteth thy¬ 
self with a little more circumspection. ‘Caesar’s 
wife should be above reproach,’ as a certain licen¬ 
tious versifier once wrote, and so should the wife of 
Dyer Dexter.” 

“I think that I do not quite understand.” Faith’s 
large eyes had suddenly changed from deep brown 
to black, flecked with cold flashes like jet. 

“Verily I think that thou dost, Sister Faith. City 
strangers with motor cars are things for the strict¬ 
est avoidance; and even a Quaker village occasion¬ 
ally produces a youth in whom the spirit of evil 
predominates, and who should be shunned like a 
pestilence lest thou, too, becomest infected or thy 
reputation suffer.” 

“Thou meanest . . . Mark Gray?” 

“None other. That youth wilt not be long in 
Content, if my voice hath any weight at the Monthly 
Meeting.” 

“I bid thee good-night,” said Faith, with ominous 
quiet. As she closed the door behind her, two re¬ 
volver shots rang out on the still air, and Dyer 
Dexter started violently. 



CHAPTER XVI 


THE VISITOR 

As it happened, Friend Dyer Dexter need have 
felt no alarm because of the shots which rang out 
so startlingly on the calm air of that spring twi¬ 
light. Nor need Mark Gray have started so in his 
more distant home. He sank back in his chair at 
once, with countenance imperturbed although his 
pulses were throbbing, and thereupon the smith, 
who had both heard and seen, bowed his head in si¬ 
lent prayer of thanksgiving. For they were merely 
the sounds from revolvers discharged in friendly 
target practice at the gravel pit, and Content was, 
during the following week, to hear many more of 
them in the early evening-tide. 

Their cause became speedily known, and then the 
dwellers in the valley had plenty to say on the sub¬ 
ject of the visitors’ wanton waste of money in the 
pursuit of an amusement which was certainly friv¬ 
olous and close kin to wickedness—since fire-arms 
were essentially things designed for battle, murder 
and sudden death. Children were strictly enjoined 
against going near the spot, but David Franklyn 
was not always obedient and slipped away on more 
than one night to lie flat upon his stomach in the 

grass which topped the gravelly embankment, view- 

182 


THE VISITOR 


183 


ing the forbidden sight with delightful tremors, 
wholly unaware of possible danger. And even if 
Faith had known the fact she would doubtless have 
been more concerned about his moral than his physi¬ 
cal peril. 

With the exception of these sounds, like baby 
thunder-claps from a clear sky, a peaceful silence 
brooded over the valley. Within and without, Con¬ 
tent was enjoying again its customary calm; it was 
a lull before the storm. The two strangers had 
been accepted and were tolerated as necessary evils. 
Few fancied Mr. Means, but Hibbard’s frank and 
friendly advances were met in kind and Mark had 
struck up a pleasant friendship with him. To be 
sure, his presence presaged future evil, for no one 
wanted the railroad, that industrial octopus which 
was thrusting a steel tentacle tentatively into their 
smiling valley; but now its coming was inevitable, 
and he was not to blame. And, finally, the village’s 
chief cause of concern was at length on model be¬ 
havior. The judgment of the coming Monthly 
Meeting hung like a sword of Damocles over Mark 
Gray’s contrite head, but the thought of this un¬ 
pleasant fact and the subconscious desire to miti¬ 
gate the decision’s severity was not the moving im¬ 
pulse in his mind. 

Mark was at last utterly and stubbornly deter¬ 
mined to conquer Self. He would win the victory 
over his impulses; he would! Partly in self-im¬ 
posed penance for past sins, partly as a daily re- 



184 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


newed test of his will-power, he kept strictly away 
from the Franklyn farm. It cost him a tremen¬ 
dous effort. There were evenings—when he had 
gone early to his simple bedroom, and the birds 
were twittering their final love-calls outside his win¬ 
dow, and the frogs and crickets were tuning up their 
nocturnal orchestra, and the winds were breathing 
soft chansons d’amour —when it seemed to him that 
he could remain away from her no longer. As he 
rested his hands on the window sill and strained 
his eyes towards her distant home, a mere blurred 
spot on the hillside, his soul longed, his heart cried 
out for her; his arms trembled with desire to know 
the feeling of her body within their close embrace. 
His thoughts leaped the intervening miles—perhaps 
it would be more accurate to say that they joined 
their invisible waves with hers, halfway between. 
Then determination would contend with desire, and 
overcome it, and Mark would turn to the Psalms 
for consolation. 

Faith, for her part, sensed the battle which was 
being waged in his soul, but that did not prevent 
her from feeling something of womanly pique, min¬ 
gled with her pain on his behalf. Why did he not 
come to her? Surely he needed her; she could 
share of her strength with him, would gladly give 
it in full measure, and he stubbornly refused to 
accept it. It was not fair; he could not love as 
she did, or he would not reject the offering which 
he must know she longed to bestow. Did he mis- 



THE VISITOR 


185 


trust her, think that, because he had again fallen 
from grace after his promise, she would not for¬ 
give—yea, seventy times seven times? 

It was, in truth, a period of anguish for Faith. 
She was drinking deep of a cup wherein were 
mingled many bitter potions. Trouble is ever 
born twins—or triplets. It was not enough that 
she had Mark constantly upon her mind. Pov¬ 
erty was pressing, even as Dyer Dexter had bluntly 
said. The spring crops were almost a failure. 
Cut worms had fallen like an army of destruction 
upon the trenches of the early peas, and left ruin 
behind them. Rust blight had completed the dev¬ 
astation. Dry rot was attacking the second plant¬ 
ing and the young beans and beets. She had not 
the least intention of accepting Dexter’s proposal, 
but the thought that what he had offered her— 
freedom from one sort of worry and more with 
which to do for the children—would go with her 
“yea,” continually troubled her. 

Finally, Robert Means gave her cause for fur¬ 
ther worry, for he intruded upon her daily, always 
finding some occasion for seeking her in the gar¬ 
den or yard. The campers’ need of fresh vege¬ 
tables was enough. Faith could not think of any 
reasonable excuse for stopping his neighborly calls, 
and his attitude towards her was always irreproach¬ 
able—courteous and entertaining, alike. It was 
surprising how entertaining he could be. Casually, 
and in his off-hand manner, he drew word-pictures 




186 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


of far-off places for her, mere sketchy suggestions, 
conveyed with a deft verbal touch, but she could 
not help but be interested by them and half look 
forward to his next visit. It was all so new, 
something wholly outside of her experiences which 
had been circumscribed within the narrowest limits. 
But with her pleasurable anticipation of each suc¬ 
ceeding call came worry, hand in hand. Friend 
Dyer’s warning had angered her, but she knew 
that it was predicated upon common sense. Her 
neighbors, should they see her and the city stranger 
in frequent conversation, would certainly be aghast, 
and Mark . . . ! Always her thoughts came back 
to Mark, and many a night she returned to the 
bedside of David and little Hope to kiss them again, 
passionately, and—more than once to moisten 
their thin pillows with a tear which would fall, 
against her will. 

“Why dost thou kiss me like that, sister Faith ?” 
the boy would demand. “Thou hast already done 
it once, to-night.” 

As for Robert Vandervetter Means, it would 
be somewhat difficult to classify his thoughts, at 
this time. Certainly the girl held a strong tem¬ 
porary fascination for him, as was not unnatural 
under the circumstances. He was an epicure, 
rather than a gourmand, in sensual enjoyments. 
Paint and powder had palled on him. The fresh 
bloom of her natural complexion was a stimulus 




THE VISITOR 


187 


to his jaded appetite. Her simplicity was as a 
cooling breeze to one flushed with excesses, yet it 
also fanned the tiny flame which had been kindled 
in him by her rebuff. He found himself quite 
thoroughly enjoying the game of drawing her out 
and analyzing her, the more because each was so 
difficult. Utterly lacking any key with which to un¬ 
lock the treasure-chamber of her soul and so disclose 
the unalloyed riches stored within it, he thought 
that her natural sweet reserve must be a cloak 
consciously worn to cover something, he did not 
know exactly what. And he wanted to find out. 
A new type of woman was to him for a moment 
just as interesting as a new specimen of flora to the 
naturalist. 

At the start this was his only real interest in 
her—this and the instinctive appeal of “the chase.” 
“Not much of a chase, at that,” thought Means 
one night, as he lay awake on his uncomfortable 
cot and fell into introspection—a pass-time to 
which he was altogether too much given, at inter¬ 
vals. “She’s like a gentle, brown-eyed fawn 
which, being unacquainted with danger, lets the 
hunter stroll up and . . . well, not ‘pat her,’ ex¬ 
actly, but at least hold converse with her. Wasn’t 
it in ‘Alice Through the Looking-Glass’ that the 
fawn talked, in the Enchanted Forest? I feel a bit 
like Alice, myself. Life’s certainly ‘contrary-wise, 
nohow,’ here.’’ 

But as the days slipped by, bringing alternating 



188 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


periods of desperate boredom and healthful re¬ 
laxation ; as his nerves, long screwed to a high ten¬ 
sion, slowly yielded to Content’s calm atmosphere, 
Means began to think more seriously of the girl. 
Indeed, he thought more Seriously than he had in 
years. He tried to analyze and explain her grow¬ 
ing appeal for him, and could not. Certainly it was 
not her face, lovely as that really was, for he had 
seen her only in her customary composure and he 
much preferred an animated countenance, along 
with wit which could almost match his own spar¬ 
kling duel. There was nothing subtle or dazzling 
about her, not even a suggestion of it, but after 
all, he thought, occasionally the charm that is in¬ 
herent in true simplicity is virgin gold and long en¬ 
during, while that of artificiality is a thin wash 
which quickly rubs off. But the next moment he 
would be telling himself, in exasperation, “You’re a 
fool, Bob Means—approaching second childhood. 
Why, a girl like that would bore you to death in¬ 
side of a week!” 

But would she? There was a spark of man¬ 
hood left alive in him, and there were rare mo¬ 
ments when he felt the burn of it in his conscience 
and rather bitterly repented his wasted life. Means 
had intellect and education, and no finely bred 
being can ever wholly banish serious reflections of 
this nature, especially during the sleepless watches 
of the night. If a woman like this young Quaker¬ 
ess—if Faith Franklyn herself—would stretch 



THE VISITOR 


189 


forth a helping hand to him, he might gain a new 
grasp on the worth-while things of life and save 
his soul. 

Thus the week wore on. Friday afternoon came, 
and Hibbard declared for an early cessation of their 
labors, as he wished to walk to the village and 
use the only telephone which it boasted to call up 
his superiors regarding a slight difficulty that had 
arisen. Dexter was the difficulty, it may be said 
in passing. A particularly moody spell had fallen 
upon his companion that afternoon, and he secretly 
rejoiced when Means refused to accompany 
him. The latter returned to their tent, entered it, 
and remained there for some time. When he 
came out his face was flushed beneath its 
newly acquired tan, and his eyes were heavy- 
lidded. 

He strolled over to the near-by farmhouse, 
where he had seen Faith working in her little flower 
garden. She managed to welcome him with a 
demure smile. It was somewhat forced, for she 
would have chosen to remain with her thoughts, 
two miles distant. She, too, was flushed of cheek, 
but only from the healthful stimulants of sun, air, 
and exercise. Her hands were covered with damp, 
rich loam and a little streak of the same mother 
earth decorated her temple, where she had thought¬ 
lessly pushed back a straying tendril of her hair. 
It detracted from the precision of her appearance, 



190 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and added a natural touch which was utterly fas¬ 
cinating. 

There was a goodly share of artistic appreciation 
in Means’ make-up, and it stirred to the picture 
which she made, standing there in an unstudied 
pose, a child of nature. His heart, too, already 
artificially warmed, pulsed more rapidly at her near 
presence. As the picture attracted the artist, the 
living woman attracted the man. 

He greeted her pleasantly, and although his 
speech lacked something of its natural crispness, 
he remained far enough away from her so that she 
did not suspect the truth, and the thought flashed 
through her sympathetic mind that he was not 
quite well. The same sympathy crept into her 
words, as she replied, “I thank thee, I am very 
well, as always—but thou appearest flushed and 
weary. Hast thou, perchance, been laboring too 
hard in the hot sun?” 

He laughed a little, but took his cue from her 
solicitous question. “Perhaps. Anyway I am 
tired, lonely—and inordinately thirsty.” 

“If thou wilt rest thyself upon the little bench 
under the elm I will gladly fetch thee some cold 
water from the well,” she answered. 

Means complied, and lolled back, hands in his 
pockets, pleased to be waited upon by so fair a 
Hebe. In truth, every man is something of a god 
in his own estimation. Faith drew up a bucketful 
of the sparkling water, her lithe body bending 



THE VISITOR 


191 


sinuously as she turned the crank, poured some of 
it over her hands to wash off the earth, and then 
filled the rusty tin dipper nearly to the brim. This 
she brought him, and he drank deeply and with 
unfeigned relish. 

“By Jove, there really isn’t anything better, is 
there?” he exclaimed. 

“Nay. I sometimes drink tea, in moderation, 
but nothing quencheth the thirst as pure cold water 
doth. Why, what is the matter?” 

Means had abruptly dropped his fevered head 
between his hands. There was a throbbing ache 
in it, and a surge of tempestuous thoughts. 

“Thy head acheth? Thou art really ill?” Al¬ 
most unconscious of her act, Faith yielded to a 
womanly impulse and laid her cool, moist hand 
upon his burning brow. The man covered it with 
both of his, and pressed hard. Such a little thing: 
merely the touch of a woman’s hand upon his head, 
laid there in friendly pity, yet so potent of 
good ... or evil! The boundary between the two 
is often no more than a shadow line; evil is seldom 
solid black—or good, pure white—in this world. 
Means could not have said on which side of the 
almost invisible line of demarcation his thoughts 
fell. 

“Faith Franklyn, you are an angel clothed in 
mortality,” he whispered. 

The startled girl attempted to withdraw her 
hand, but he held it more closely still. This was 



192 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


almost sacrilege. Mark had so held her hand and 
used almost the same phrase in declaring his love 
for her, and that was sacred to her. 

“Nay ...” she began, trembling a little. 

“You are, Faith—a ministering angel and my 
guardian angel as well, I honestly believe.” First 
the touch of her hand, unconsidered but neverthe¬ 
less caressing, then her struggle to free it, had 
loosed the final bounds of a growing passion. He 
sprang to his feet, encircled her waist with one arm. 
and attempted to draw her close. 

Shuddering, Faith exerted all her young strength 
and broke loose from him. Her neck and cheeks 
were stained crimson, her eyes were big and spar¬ 
kling black, her breast rose and fell quickly. She 
would have run into the house if David, Hope, 
and Jeremiah with them, had not at that instant 
appeared around the corner of the barn. The boy 
was, as always, in advance, and now he paused 
and frankly scowled at Means. The man had 
presented him with several little gifts and tried to 
win his friendship without avail. 

Jeremiah, however, gave him a gaping smile as 
soon as he was close enough for his near-sighted eyes 
to recognize the caller, and likewise a broad wink. 
The farm hand frequently strolled over to the camp 
and split firewood for them, and more than once 
he had made the acquaintance of Means’ whiskey— 
against the objection of Hibbard. Fortunately, 
Faith had not yet learned of the fact, nor did she 



THE VISITOR 


193 


see the visible evidence of this bond between the 
two men of widely different stations. Perhaps 
fortunately, likewise, Jeremiah was much too near¬ 
sighted to see the look of anger and distress upon 
the girl’s countenance, for even his none too keen 
intellect might have surmised the truth, and he wor¬ 
shiped the ground on which she trod. 

Vexed by this interruption, yet half relieved that 
he had been saved from making a complete fool of 
himself, Means started away, after first thanking 
the girl for her kindness in a manner which was 
at once humble and courteous. As he passed 
Jeremiah he remarked, “If Miss Franklyn can spare 
you for a few minutes this evening I wish that you 
would come over and cut a little more kindling for 
us. I told Mr. Hibbard that I would do it, but 
I’m not altogether well, and extremely tired—in 
fact . . . ” he passed his hand across his brow 
“. . . I hardly know what I am doing.” The 
sentence was, of course, meant rather for the ears 
of Faith than those of the farm hand. 

“Sure. Count on me. Danged if I ain’t the 
best kindlin’ chopper in Content, and there are some 
here that can split hairs, at that. No objection 
to my goin’ now, is there, Faith?” demanded Jere¬ 
miah, turning to his young mistress. 

Somewhat uncertainly she nodded her permission 
and the ill-assorted pair moved off together. David 
watched them go. Then he thrust his hand, soiled 
with weeding, into Faith’s and remarked with 



194 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


childhood’s frankness, “I wish that that man’d go 
way away, sister Faith.” 

“So do I, David boy.” 

Hibbard had paused for a moment at the smithy, 
on his way home. 

“You’re working too hard, Mark,” he announced 
in parting. “A young fellow like you should not 
be getting pale around the gills. You know what 
all work and no play does to a man as well as boy! 
Better knock off early to-morrow—it’s Saturday— 
and take a tramp with me. You know the country 
better than I do and could be of real help to me, 
besides being a somewhat pleasanter companion 
than Bob Means has been of late. What do you 
say?” 

% 

“If father hath no objections I will say ‘yea,’ 
gladly,” answered Mark, inwardly much pleased 
at the frank invitation. 

“Assuredly I have none. It will do the lad 
good, as thou hast said, Friend,” the smith replied. 
“I have respect for thee and Mark will be safe 
and in good company.” 

If he had but known! 



CHAPTER XVII 


MARKSMEN 

“Art thou not going to stop thy work, and join 
Friend Hibbard as he requested thee, Mark?” in¬ 
quired the smith, on the following afternoon. 

“Presently, father. I dislike to leave a task 
half-completed. ‘Business first, pleasure after¬ 
wards/ is a good motto, I think.” 

“Of a verity it is, my son, and it pleaseth me to 
hear thee make it thine own. I may say, too, that I 
am well pleased with the way thou hast conducted 
thyself this week; thou hast labored right diligently 
and acted with circumspection in all things.” 

The pleasure which Mark felt at hearing these 
words of unexpected and unusual commendation 
from his father’s lips showed in his own voice, as 
he haltingly replied, “Nay, do not praise me. I 
deserve ...” 

“Thou deservest, as all mankind deserves, honest 
appreciation for honest effort. I am not one of 
those who hold that faults should be criticized and 
virtues ignored. Fulsom flattery is a bad thing, 
but sincere praise a stimulus to further endeavor, 
although thine own consciousness that thou hast 
done well outweighs it. 


i95 


196 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


'There was truth in what thy new friend said, 
yester-even. Thou appearest pale and drawn, but 
I know that it is rather from worry, than work. 
Continue to walk uprightly and thou needest fear no 
evil. I have some influence with the Monthly 
Meeting and thine own recent behavior will have 
more. Others than I have been watching thee, my 
son.” 

Mark attempted a bit of bravado. “If thou art 
satisfied, I care little what they say.” 

“Nay, thou dost not mean that. A fair reputa¬ 
tion is a jewel with which all may properly adorn 
themselves—those of our faith especially. But 
tell me, my boy, is there not the thought of 
something—or some one—else, disturbing thy 
mind?” 

\ 

Mark glanced quickly up. “Yea,” he answered, 
involuntarily. 

“Is it . . . Sister Faith?” 

“Father! Thou knowest?” A light leaped 
into the young man’s eyes, and those of the smith 
twinkled a little. “Youth will always think that 
age knows nothing of the love of a man for a 
maid, or that it has lost remembrance of it amid 
the shadows of the past. It is not so, my son. 
We have our memories, at least.” He paused. 
Mark laid down the iron which he was shaping and 
drew a step nearer. 

“Mother,” he breathed. “She was very dear, 
was she not ?” 




MARKSMEN 


197 


“One of God’s own . . . too good for this 
world.’’ 

“How often I have wished that she might have 
lived! Not only because I know that I have 
missed something precious, but because I feel that 
she would have . . . have understood, as none 
other could. Thou hast been very patient with my 
shortcomings, but if I had h^d the comfort and 
inspiration of a mother’s love . . 

“I know. Thou dost not remember her at all?” 

“Nay. At least, I suppose that I do not, actually, 
yet at times I have a vivid dream as though . . 
Mark turned away. There was a mist in his eyes 
which he felt must be unmanly, and the story of 
his dream too childish for a man to tell. A brief 
silence ensued, during which each was busy with 
his own thoughts. Then the smith said, “Faith 
is not altogether unlike her. I have a deep affec¬ 
tion for her; she is a sweet girl and would be a 
good influence for thee. Hast thou spoken to her 
of thy feelings?” 

“She knoweth, and . . . Oh, I cannot accept 
what she might be willing to give. I am not 
worthy; sometimes I doubt if I ever shall be.” 

“The love of a true woman is like the love of 
God, and each is as a driven well whose pure 
waters can both cleanse, and quench the thirst. If 
we neglect any of them they will in time cease to 
flow for our use, although the water is still within 
the rock, but the more we draw upon it the more 




198 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


it will flow forth, an inexhaustible stream. If I 
were thee I would not keep wholly away from her 
in thine hour of need. I have confidence in thee, my 
son. The spirit of thy mother and the love of 
the girl should be as lights to guide thy feet through 
the darkness.” 

Mark lifted his head, resolutely. “I mean that 
they shall be. I shall finish my tramp this after¬ 
noon by visiting her.” 

a , wM 

A little while later he was swinging blithely 
down the broad highway, his steps in time with the 
hymn-tune which he was whistling. There was no 
set music in the Friends’ meetings, but often some 
one would be moved by the Spirit to start a hymn, 
instead of praying or reading from the gospels, 
and Mark knew and loved all of the old familiar 
tunes. The man’s soul was as full of melody as a 
lark’s. 

His music was suddenly interrupted by the crack 
of two pistols, a little distance to the left. Mark 
stopped in his tracks, and smiled, and frowned si¬ 
multaneously. Of course it was merely Means and 
Hibbard at their foolish, wasteful pastime. Then 
the latter must be at the gravel pit. 

Again the staccato sounds shattered the stillness. 

He felt his heart beating faster, and his thoughts 
went back to the mercifully ended days when War 
was raging overseas, and he had secretly yearned 
to be in it all, often wickedly imagining himself a 




MARKSMEN 


199 


hero in the midst of the bloody fighting. “I’m 
nearly twenty-two,” he thought. “Yet how little 
I really know of life! ‘Battle, murder, sudden 
death!’ Millions of men of my age know them in¬ 
timately, and to me they are only names. ... I 
suppose I should say, ‘thank God.’ Why, I’ve 
never so much as seen a gun fired, much less held 
one in my hands. I wonder what it would feel 
like to hold a weapon capable of dealing death 
afar off?” 

Mark glanced down at the big fingers of his 
right hand and saw them curling up as though about 
the butt of an imaginary revolver. He lifted 
his arm, and sighted along the invisible barrel at a 
robin which was gayly teetering up and down on the 
end of the branch of a wayside bush. 

Crack! A shot rang out, and the bird flew. 
“Missed,” laughed the youth. “Thou hast no need 
to worry, birdling. If I had been holding a real pis¬ 
tol I should assuredly not have aimed it at thee.” 

His eyes turned in the direction of the gravel pit. 
“I believe that I will go past it and let Friend Hib¬ 
bard know that I have come at last,” thought he. It 
was a perfectly reasonable excuse for his sudden de¬ 
termination to visit the spot and see for himself what 
was happening there. 

Mark’s head appeared above the rim of the pit 
just as Means was delicately increasing the pull on 
the trigger with his slender fore-finger. 

Crack! 



200 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Damnation!” ejaculated the city man, throwing 
the revolver to the ground in a sudden burst of 
rage. “Haven’t you country bumpkins any more 
sense than to stick your heads up just over a target? 
I don’t know as I would have been so devilish sorry 
if I had slipped and put a bullet into you—it might 
have taught you a lesson. That shot doesn’t 
count in my string, Hib. The fellow spoiled my 
aim,” he added, addressing his friend. 

“Suit yourself.” Hibbard's voice indicated his 
disgust. Means had been a poor companion, all day, 
and after they had knocked off work had taken 
just enough drinks to make him quarrelsome and 
insistent that they engage in revolver competition 
for a while. To humor him into better nature 
Hibbard had agreed to shoot until Mark should 
arrive. 

“There’s scarcely any need of quibbling, though— 
—you’ve already got me beaten to a fare-ye-well. 
I can't shoot against you, and you know it. I’m a 

dub, and you’re betting on a sure thing. Want to 

\ 

try your luck at the game, Mark?” he called cheer¬ 
fully up. 

“Nay, I thank thee, Friend. I do not use war¬ 
like weapons.” 

“Well, neither do I, now—as I’ve been remark¬ 
ing. And to-day I couldn’t hit the broadside of 
a barn door. Come on down and see how it seems.” 

Mark took one ill-considered step forward, obey¬ 
ing inclination. Then he would have checked him- 




MARKSMEN 


201 


self, but it was too late. Another pitfall had been 
dug for him. He had placed his weight upon an 
out-jutting bit of turf, which caved in and precipi¬ 
tated him down the steep bank in a small avalanche 
of loose gravel. The look of foolish surprise 
on his face brought a smile to Means’ lips. 
Hibbard frankly roared, and Mark laughed with 
him as he scrambled to his feet. 

“I was about to say, ‘nay,’ a second time,” he 
announced. “But here I am.” 

“Right. I’ll say you are. Your sudden arrival 
reminds me of a limerick which runs . . . I’m not 
sure of the words, but it’s something like this! 
T can't see you now, Mr. Brown; I'm just out of 
my bath,’ called Miss Drowne. He replied, ‘Never 
mind, just slip on what you find.’ So she slipped 
on the stairs and came down.’ ” 

Mark could not resist the impulse to smile, but 
he felt that his face flushed. He did not lack im¬ 
agination. 

“You quoted it all wrong,” remarked Means, in a 
petulant tone. 

“I suppose so: everything that I do to-day seems 
to be wrong, from your standpoint, Bob.” From 
Hibbard’s somewhat sharp reply, Mark drew the 
conclusion that all was not running smoothly be¬ 
tween the two visitors, and he rightly guessed the 
reason, or one of them; for Means’ face was flushed 
again, and his breath pungent. The whiff which he 
had caught of it sent his memory winging back to 



202 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the flask in the automobile, and something told him 
that the other’s scowling glance towards him had 
a similar inception. Hibbard, too, felt the electric 
charge in the atmosphere and realized that he had 
blundered in inviting Mark to join them. With the 
hope of creating a temporary diversion, he hastened 
to add, lightly, “Well, now that you are here, try 
your luck. Here’s my revolver. . . 

“Your’s?” sarcastically demanded Means. 

“Oh, thunder, Bob, what’s got into you, to-day? 
Of course if you have any objection to his shooting 
it once ...” 

“I? Not in the least,” the other answered, with 
airy politeness. “I should be delighted to receive 
a lesson in Quaker marksmanship from him, so long 
as he doesn’t shoot me.” 

“Well, I haven’t done it—yet; and Mark would 
have to be a mighty poor marksman to be any 
worse than I am this afternoon.” 

“Which would certainly be the case, were I to try 
it,” broke in the youth. “I have never even held a 
weapon in my hand.” 

“You have, now.” Hibbard thrust the pearl- 
handled pistol into Mark’s grasp, and his fingers had 
closed almost tenderly about it before he was fully 
aware of the fact. He knew that he should sur¬ 
render it at once, but its owner’s attitude—while 
making such surrender the more imperative—was 
like a challenge. The suggestion that he could not 
do something which this dweller in the city could 



MARKSMEN 


203 


do, aroused his antagonism. In addition, a very 
strange sensation was stealing over him, body and 
mind. The pistol-butt nestled lovingly in his palm; 
his hand and it seemed to be as one. He might al¬ 
most have been born grasping a revolver, so natural 
did it feel. Shaking his head in perplexity, he re¬ 
peated, “I have never fired off a pistol in my life.” 

“Then you can be like Pat, who, when he was 
asked if he could play the violin—answered, ‘I 
dunno. Sure and I never tried/ ” 

Hibbard was doing his level best to counteract 
the hostility waves which permeated the atmosphere 
about them, and, having drawn a little smile from 
Mark, turned to Means with a wink, as he added, 
“The thing is perfectly simple—in theory. All that 
you have to do is to point the muzzle accurately 
at the object you want to hit, hold it perfectly still 
and pull the trigger; this dingbat, here. Then 
you’re practically bound to score a bulls-eye. 
Understand?” 

“Yea, it is simple,” responded the Quaker in 
all seriousness. “What shall I hit?” 



CHAPTER XVIII 




I 


THE QUARREL 

“ ‘What shall I hit?’ ” mocked Means, sardon¬ 
ically. “Did you get the significance of that? Not 
‘what shall I aim at,’ but ‘what shall I hit?’ How 
delightfully naive! If simplicity were money your 
Quaker friend would be a millionaire, Hib. For 
the sake of his self-esteem, I suggest that you sug¬ 
gest his hitting the sand bank.” 

“Oh, lay off, Bob. You’re devilishly disagreeable, 
to-day. Don’t let him get your goat, Mark.” 

The young man opened his mouth to reply; then 
changed his mind and closed his lips tightly again. 

He was inwardly raging, but this time his anger at 

/ 

the stinging sarcasm was not of the volcanic nature 
customary with him, but set in ice. Apparently he 
had made a fool of himself, and Hibbard had been 
but jesting when he said that it was all very simple. 
The dictates of reason whispered that he had best 
withdraw, now, admitting his foolishness and that 
the laugh was on him. But he could not. Means’ 
mocking gaze forbade it, as did his own stubborn 
will. He would go through with it now, whatever 
happened, and trust to God for guidance for his 
hand. That was it; trust to God. Mark found 


204 


THE QUARREL 


205 


himself actually and fervently praying that a mira¬ 
cle would happen in his behalf—that his “Quaker 
simplicity” would be vindicated and not allowed to 
become a laughing stock. 

All these thoughts flashed through his mind 
simultaneously with Hibbard’s continued words, 
“Fire at anything you like. Means and I have been 
endeavoring to kill that innocent wrapping-paper 
target stuck up against the sand bank in front of you, 
but . . .” 

“But if that looks too easy, you might knock 
the neck off that dead soldier sitting on the rock,” 
broke in Means. “I was saving it for a final dem¬ 
onstration of my own poor skill, but I will cheer¬ 
fully relinquish it to you.” 

“ ‘Dead soldier?’” Mark echoed, in bewilder¬ 
ment. 

“Exactly. I am referring to that empty bottle 
yonder. It once contained some excellent one hun¬ 
dred proof whiskey. I think that you know what 
that is—have, perhaps, made the acquaintance of 
some from that very bottle,” drawled the other, in¬ 
sultingly, while his eyes narrowed. 

“Perhaps ... I have.” Mark spoke very de¬ 
liberately. A whiskey bottle! He had prayed to 
God for aid, as worldly as was the object of his 
petition, and lo, the target which was offered him 
was an instrument of the devil. “Very well, I will 
—at least I shall try,” he said, in even tone. 

As deliberately as he had spoken, he raised his 



206 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


strong right arm, clutching the revolver desperately, 
and took careful aim at the mark. 

“Bet you that he doesn’t come within six feet of it, 
Bob,” cried Means. “Ten to one odds on that—five 
hundred dollars to fifty. Come on, are you back¬ 
ing your youthful protege?” 

“Not to the extent of a week’s salary; I guess 
not! But I’ll go you a cigar, even.” 

“Done! Well, why don’t you shoot? Are you 
waiting for the target to grow?” This to Mark. 

To the Quaker’s astonishment his hand, always 
so strong and steady, was trembling. All the mus¬ 
cles of his tensed arm were a-quiver. “This won’t 
do,” he thought. “I have got to hit that bottle . . . 
yea, and win Friend Hibbard’s wager for him. I 
must relax, somehow.” 

Without answering he dropped the weapon to 
his side. Then, following an inexplicable impulse, 
he raised it above his head, muzzle pointing upward, 
brought it down, neither fast nor slowly, and when 
the tiny sight covered the bottle’s neck, pulled the 
“dingbat” on which his forefinger lightly rested. 

Crack! Crack! The second sound was like a 
simultaneous echo of the first as the slender neck 
flew to pieces. Mark opened his eyes, which had 
instinctively closed with the shot. He looked be¬ 
fore him. The bottle lay upon its side on the flat 
rock, but the neck was gone. 

There was an instant of complete silence. Then 
Hibbard gave a long, low whistle and followed it 



_THE QUARREL_207 

with the exclamation, “I smoke on you, Bob. 
Some shot!” 

Sudden excitement took hold of Mark, and he 
cried exultantly, “Why, it is even as thou hast said, 
Friend—it is as easy as pointing one’s finger. 
Now I shall smash the bottom of the accursed thing, 
thus.” 

Almost before the words had passed his lips he had 
repeated his action, and the remainder of the bot¬ 
tle flew into fragments. 

“Good Lord, what shooting! An expert couldn’t 
have bettered it, and Mark never had a shooting 
iron in his hand before in his life! Bob! Did 
you ever see anything like it?” 

In answer to Hibbard’s enthusiasm—the man was 
fairly dancing about and pounding Mark on the 
back—Means sneered, “It appears that I pasted the 
label ‘Simplicity 1 on the wrong can, and I apologize 
to your friend. You are the simple one to fall for 
such arrant nonsense as that. ‘Never had a revol¬ 
ver in his hand before!’ Huh, tell it to the ma¬ 
rines.” 

Mark’s anger had been dissipated by his success. 
Now the taunter’s words came as a mental shock 
—like a physical blow in the face. For a moment 
he was more surprised than anything else, and his 
tone was indicative of his feelings, as he answered, 
“Nay, but it was the gospel truth.” 

The other gave a short laugh. “I see. ‘That’s 
my story, and I’m going to stick to it,’ eh? Well, 



208 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


I have to hand it to you for being a liar with a 
most convincing manner. Quakerism must be won¬ 
derful training.” 

“Friends do not lie; nor did I.” 

“And I say it was a lie, a-lie!” 

“Then it is thou that liest!” 

Mark’s face was strangely white, but his voice 
was even—as impersonal as the sound of a duel¬ 
ing pistol. 

Hibbard laid an intercepting hand on his com¬ 
panion’s shoulder, for he knew that drink made 
him utterly irresponsible; robbed him of all sense 
of proportion. To no avail. Means, blazing with 
anger, flung himself away from it and his clenched 
fist shot out and dealt the young Quaker a resound¬ 
ing smash on the left cheek. 

Specks of blood-red fire flashed before Mark's 
burning eyes. The volcano asleep within his soul 
seethed as though his whole inner being were a 
scorching, molten mass. The mad desire to kill 
possessed him. But, through the tempestuous 
roaring in his brain, he heard the words as clearly 
as though a human voice were speaking them to his 
ears, “Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, 
turn to him the other, also.” 

“Nay, never!” thought he, but even as he denied 
the command he unconsciously obeyed it. Without 
hesitating a moment, Means accepted the visible in¬ 
vitation. He was fairly beside himself. 

Crack! 





THE QUARREL 


209 


This time the sound accompanied the impact of 
Mark’s iron left hand as its open palm struck 
Means’ jaw. It was merely a slap; but such a slap 
that its victim went to the ground as though he had 
been felled by a sledge-hammer. 

For the space of several seconds none of the three 
moved. Means lay where he had fallen, both hands 
pressed against his numbed jaw and smarting cheek. 
Hibbard stood leaning forward a little and holding 
his breath. Mark remained like a statue, arm still 
extended. He was the first to recover himself and 
he straightened up, allowing his arm to drop to his 
side. The old revulsion of feeling was surging 
over him in waves of misery. “Oh,’’ he cried. 
“Why did I do it? I am sorry, now . . . but when 
he struck me that second time ...” 

“Sorry, now? If you were going to be sorry for 
teaching him a deserved lesson why, in heaven’s 
name, did you stand there like a wooden Indian, 
and let him punch you the second time?” demanded 
Hibbard. 

“I ... I do not know. I . . .” 

“He’ll be sorry enough, before I’m through with 
him,” Means shouted wildly, as he scrambled to 
his unsteady feet and spit some saliva flecked with 
blood from his mouth. His teeth had cut the side 
of his cheek. “I’ll kill the . . .” His unprintable 
epithet was partly choked off by the restraining arm 
which Hibbard flung about his neck. 

“For God’s sake get out, Mark,” begged the latter, 




210 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


as he endeavored to pinion the arms of his raging 
comrade. 

For another instant Mark stood in his tracks, 
panting. Then he turned and ran—not from the 
man, but from the devil within himself. He re¬ 
alized that if Means should again attack him he 
would slay him, bare-handed. Desire still clamored 
for him to return, and avenge the blow and the 
deadly insult, but he ran on under the urging of 
his will, heedless of direction. 

He had gone some little distance from the place 
of the encounter before he permitted himself to slow 
down from a run to a walk. Then he stopped en¬ 
tirely, the better to regain control of his quivering 
nerves. For the first time he now became conscious 
of the fact that the fingers of his left hand were 
stinging, mightily, and as he flexed and unflexed 
them he seemed to feel again the impact of that 
single blow, and his blood leaped anew. At the 
same instant he realized, with a start, that he was 
still holding, clutched in his right hand, the revolver 
which he had been firing. He regarded it with 
surprise and loathing. The strange fascination 
which it had exercised over his mind had forced 
him to touch it and been the initial cause of all the 
trouble. He wanted to cast the weapon far from 
him, but of course he must return it to its owner. 
Not now, however. It must be at a time when both 
he and Means had grown cooler. 

With a little shudder he dropped the sinister thing 




THE QUARREL 


211 


into his side pocket. Then he stood, eyes on the 
ground, a prey to bitter thoughts. An afternoon 
which had promised so fairly had turned dark and 
dismal, although the sun still shone in the clear 
heavens. There seemed to be no help for it, he 
was apparently fated to sing a crescendo scale of 
discordant notes. 

Into his gloomy reflection broke a clear call—his 
own name, several times repeated. 

At first he was scarcely conscious that he was 
being addressed, but on the third repetition of the 
call he lifted his bowed head to find himself close 
to the split rail fence which enclosed the Franklyn 
pasture land. In the garden beyond it stood Faith, 
beckoning to him. 



CHAPTER XIX 


FAITH-COMFORTER 

Mark was doubly disturbed. It had been his 
intention to visit Faith, but after what had just 
happened he would have preferred to face almost 
any one else, even Means again. He was di¬ 
sheveled, mind and body were heated, his face still 
stung and ached from the force of the blows 
which had been dealt it. His mouth was parched. 
As he ran his tongue over his dried lips Mark sud¬ 
denly remembered what his father had said, but 
an hour before, concerning the love of a true 
woman and its likeness to the thirst-quenching 
waters of a pure well. He needed it now, as never 
before, refreshment and strength to his burning 
heart. 

With new resolve, he climbed the fence, crossed 
the narrow field and picked his way among the rows 
of early vegetables, which enabled him to keep his 
head bent and so, for a little longer, avoid the 
question that he felt must lie in her look. 

But Mark need not have hesitated, as it hap¬ 
pened, for the girl’s mind was, for the moment, 
too occupied with a new problem of her own to be 


212 


FAITH—COMFORTER 


213 


aware of his unnatural appearance. As soon as he 
had arrived within easy speaking distance, she 
called to him, “Oh, but I am glad that thou hast 
come, Mark. Prayers are answered. Twice within 
the hour I have been on the point of sending David 
for thee, indeed, for I have needed thee.” 

She had needed him! Upon hearing Faith's 
frank statement all of his own worries took wing. 

Mark hastened the few remaining steps to her 
side and demanded, anxiously, “What is the matter, 
Faith. Has something untoward happened? Thou 
hast been frightened!” 

“A little, yea. Although I suppose that it was 
really foolish of me.” 

“What is it? Tell me. If there is anything 
that I can do ...” 

“It hath resulted because of something which 
the city campers—or one of them—hath done, 
Mark.” 

The man felt his nerves begin to creep and his 
fingers to contract once more. The sting returned 
to his left hand and sent a thrill of satisfaction 
to his mind, as it recalled the blow. With an 
ominous note in his voice, he said, “What hath he 
done to injure, or to frighten thee?” 

Faith responded with an uncertain laugh, in¬ 
tended to reaasure him, and her tone was lighter as 
she answered, “Nay, he hath done nothing . . . 
that is . . she hesitated, unwilling to speak a 
falsehood, . . it is not on mine own account 



214 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


that I am troubled, to-day, but rather on account 
of Jeremiah.” 

“Jeremiah? Why, how should this Means—yea, 
it is he to whom thou hast referred, I know—how 
should he have aught to do with him?” 

“He . . . the city men have engaged him to 
split firewood for them during some of his spare 
moments, with my permission. I could not well 
refuse it, since I can pay the poor man so little, 
Mark.” 

“I understand, but. . . 

“I am much afraid that it is even as I feared. 
On returning home Jeremiah hath several times 
behaved strangely, and this afternoon . . .” 

“Means hath been giving him liquor?” 

“I am almost sure of it, Mark. I do not be¬ 
lieve that he would have obtained it dishonestly. 
But whether they gave it to him or he . . . he 
found it, he is even now a victim of his old-time 
failing.” 

Faith's distress was so real that Mark was deeply 
touched by it, and reviled himself anew for having 
so much as taken a drop from the flask into his 
mouth. “Oh, what an evil thing it is,” she cried. 
“How can men allow their brains to be so warped 
by it? He hath been strangely obsessed and yet 
pitifully amusing, withal, this afternoon.” She 
ended with another nervous laugh. 

“What hath he done?” 

“The queerest things. I saw him come home 



FAITH—COMFORTER 


215 


from the camp an hour ago, walking in a manner 
which brought an ache to my heart. He went 
to his little room in the barn loft and shortly came 
out, again, carrying an old gun. I remember his 
bringing it here when I was a small girl, and my 
farther forbidding him to keep it—but he must 
have kept it hidden, somewhere. I went to him, 
and remonstrated, but he insisted that it was for my 
sake that he had gotten it out—that he had to pro¬ 
tect me no matter what happened to him.” 

Faith gave another somewhat tremulous little 
laugh, but her eyes were sad. 

“From whom does he think that he is guarding 
thee, Faith?” Mark was wondering if Jeremiah 
had a premonition—born of alcohol—that danger 
threatened from the hillside where the tent stood. 
But the girl laughed more naturally, as she an¬ 
swered, “From Indians. Thou knowest how full 
of wild stories he is, which makes him such a 
favorite with the children. Now his poor mind is 
dwelling in the days of the pioneers.” 

“Where is he?” 

“In the west lot—the little pasture. When I 
last went to speak to him he was lying beneath the 
truck wagon, and insisted that it was a caravan and 
that the Indians were on every hillside. He was 
terribly in earnest, and I have been greatly troubled 
for fear he will shoot himself—or perhaps a cow, 
which we could most ill afford to lose—but I cannot 
make him relinquish the gun to my charge.” 




216 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Of course thou hast been worried—he should 
be ashamed and doubtless wilt be when he is again 
sober—but there is probably no danger. I should 
doubt if the old gun were loaded.” 

“But it is, Mark—at least it was a little while 
ago. I heard a tremendous bang and ran to see 
what had happened. Poor, foolish Jeremiah was 
jumping about, waving the gun in the air, and as 
I ran up he cried, ‘You may come now, Faith. It’s 
safe. See, Fve killed it; Fve killed it!’ ” 

“Killed what?” begged Mark. 

“His wig!” 

“ ‘His wig’?” 

“Even so. Oh, Mark, I should not laugh at 
him—it is pitiably tragic . . . but it is too funny. 
I surmise that, heated alike by the liquor and the 
hot sun, he had removed that atrocious thing of 
dirty webbing and queer colored hair with which 
he so vainly covereth his bald head, and placed it 
on one of the near-by fence posts. Probably he 
looked up, suddenly, and his near-sighted eyes and 
befuddled brain distorted it into some ferocious 
animal, I know not what. And ... he shot it.” 

Both of them were now laughing like children. 

“Dost thou mean to say that he hit it?” 

“Of a verity he did. It is now as full of little 
holes as my sieve. He can never wear it again, 
and his heart will be broken.” 

“It. will serve him right,” replied Mark, alike 
serious and censorious. “Fire-arms are things 




FAITH—COMFORTER 


217 


fraught with danger.” Suddenly he recalled the 
revolver in his coat pocket. It seemed to grow un¬ 
believably heavy and hot against his side. “I 
will go and reason with him,” he added. 

Together they walked rapidly to the west pasture, 
and there found the farm hand where Faith had 
left him, lying in the scant shade furnished by the 
truck wagon. Beside him was a rusty, double- 
barreled shot gun, and his particular pet—a small 
maltese cat—lay stretched out across his thin chest, 
purring contentedly. The man himself was three- 
quarters asleep, with his mouth wide open. At the 
sound of Mark’s voice, sternly addressing him, 
Jeremiah opened his heavy eyes a little and gave 
the visitors a hazy smile of recognition and wel¬ 
come. 

“What does this mean? What art thou doing 
here?” demanded Mark. 

The other did not move, except to stroke the cat, 
uncertainly. In a thick voice he replied, “Shoot’n’. 
Been a-shoot’n’ sparrers . . . f’r Pat.” He had 
christened the feline thus when it was a tiny kitten, 
because of its green eves, and although it had later 
seemed wise to change the name to Patricia, she was 
still “Pat” to him. 

With an effort Mark managed to keep his face 
under control. 

“It seemeth to me that this is pretty small busi¬ 
ness for a grown man,” he answered, in a voice 
intended to be scathing. 



218 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Jeremiah’s grin broadened. “Well, she’s a pretty 
small cat.” 

That ended the conversation as far as he was 
concerned, and he rolled over on his side and went 
promptly to sleep. Mark heard a queer, smothered 
sound behind him and wheeled about, to find 
Faith with a corner of her house-apron stuffed in 
her mouth to check her laughter. But her eyes 
were misty. 

He confiscated the shot-gun and, now a walking 
arsenal, headed back towards the house. 

“Drink and weapons of destruction! What a 
heavy curse the twain have laid upon this world,” 
whispered the girl. 

They walked on in silence, and Mark’s former 
distressing thoughts flocked back to settle heavily 
upon his mind. Should he now make confession of 
how sadly he, too, had fallen from grace because 
of them that afternoon, despite his promise to her 
of better things? Or should he remain silent? 
The former course would be the more honorable 
one and might likewise bring some slight relief to 
his own heart, but it would merely be shifting 
part of the burden to hers. 

The troublesome question was decided for him, 
and in an unexpected manner. David came run- 
ning out of the side door, at their approach, and 
flung himself bodily upon the man, crying, “Oh, 
Mark, but I am glad to see thee. Hast thou 
brought a rosy-cheeked apple for me, to-day?”' 




FAITH—COMFORTER 


219 


Without waiting for a reply to his demand, the boy 
commenced his customary search through Mark’s 
pockets, which often held some little favor for him 
and for little Hope. His hand was in the side 
pocket where the revolver lay, before Mark could 
remember and check him. David drew out the 
gleaming weapon, and uttered a cry of surprised 
delight, while Faith gave one of amazement and 
dismay, and stepped back a pace. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, her eyes growing big. “It 
is a gun—another gun. Mark!” 

His heart was. in his boots, but he tried to 
pass the affair off with a laugh and answered in 
jesting mimicry of Jeremiah’s words, “Well, it’s 
a pretty small gun.” 

“A gun! I know, it’s just like the ones that the 
city strangers shoot with, nightly, at the gravel pit,” 
broke in David, and his sister cried, “How didst 
thou know that ? Hast thou not been forbid¬ 
den . . .” 

“I know, sister Faith. I ... I just happened to 
be passing by the pit and I could not help looking, 
just once.” Desirous of changing the subject as 
quickly as possible, the boy readdressed himself to 
Mark and demanded, eagerly, “Will it shoot? 
Canst thou make it go bang?' } 

“Yea, David, I suppose that I can. But here 
is thine apple, son, and one for thy little sister. 
Take them and run along; I have something to 
say to Faith.” 



220 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


‘‘It seemeth to me that thou art always saying, ‘run 
along.’ I want to stay, Mark, and see thee shoot 
the gun as the city men do. Please, Mark.” He 
started to sink his even teeth into the apple, but 
suddenly changed his mind and placed it atop his 
head. “See, now I am the little boy from whose 
head William Tell shot the apple in the story-book. 
Couldst thou do that, Mark?” 

The man instinctive raised the revolver, as he 
had twice before, but dropped it again to his side 
as Faith sprang forward and clasped his arm, 
giving a little cry of terror. He laughed, shortly. 
“Nay, I am assuredly not going to attempt it—al¬ 
though I could hit it well enough.” Mark made 
the statement simply and with no thought of 
boastfulness. Odd as it was, the thought that he 
might fail, should he attempt the shot, and perhaps 
kill the lad whom he loved dearly, never so much as 
flashed through his mind. His self-confidence was 
complete; he knew that, although he had never 
touched a pistol until a half hour previous, he had 
perfect command over it. No professional marks¬ 
man who twice daily shoots the cigarette from the 
lips of his fellow performer could have felt more 
complete assurance of his ability than Mark at that 
moment. 

He replaced the revolver in his pocket, and 
David swallowed his disappointment with a big 
bite of the solacing apple, and trotted off to join 
his smaller sister on the porch. Something was 




FAITH—COMFORTER 


221 


the matter with the man who had once been the 
best playmate in the world. He was not half the 
fun that he had been! 

Faith had stood regarding her visitor with a 
deepening shadow and a question in her dark eyes. 
She loved him; therefore she could instinctively 
sense his varying moods. Now she knew that 
something of serious moment was troubling his 
soul, and of course it had to do with the weapon— 
a strange thing for a Friend to be carrying in his 
pocket, and doubly strange and dangerous for one 
of Mark Gray’s impulses. But she waited for him 
to speak, full-well knowing that he would soon 
tell her in his own way. 

“Yea, I have shot the pistol . . . this after¬ 
noon ; but I shall never fire another.” He spoke the 
last words very slowly, and they cost him a sudden 
sharp pang. His was a renunciation of something, 
the keen joy of which had just been made known to 
him and must never be experienced again. And 
how the mere “feel” of the butt within his hand 
had thrilled him! With a look of complete dis¬ 
couragement, a gesture of despair, he turned to 
her and exclaimed, “Oh, I have failed again, 
Faith . . . failed most woefully.” 

The expression of distress upon his countenance 
was instantly reflected upon her’s. 

“Tell me, if thou wilt, dear lad. If aught is 
troubling thy heart let me help thee bear it. I shall 
understand, for I know how hard thou hast been 



222 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


trying.” Faith spoke gently and led him to the 
rustic bench beneath the elm, almost as a mother 
might a child who had erred and come back repent¬ 
ing. There Mark told her all that had happened— 
all, that is, except the conclusion of the affair and 
Means’ threat. When he had finished his story he 
dropped his forehead upon his clasped hands in re¬ 
morse. 

The girl started. Here was Mark, sitting just 
as Means had sat, and upon the same bench. Each 
had addressed her in almost identical words. Yet 
how utterly different they were, and how utterly 
different her feelings towards them! He raised 
his eyes to her countenance, to behold the condem¬ 
nation which her continued silence seemed to imply, 
and he so richly merited. He beheld, instead, an 
expression of mingled sympathy, love, and anger, 
yet he felt that the last was not directed towards 
him. Indeed the girl’s emotions, usually hidden 
with such care behind the calm mask of her kind, 
had been strongly aroused by his recital, and 
showed clearly upon her face. 

“I sinned, Faith. There is no excuse that I can 
offer for what I did,” said Mark very humbly. 

“Perhaps it is true that thou hast sinned, but thou 
wert strongly tempted.” 

“That is no excuse.” 

“Nay, I know. I was for the moment thinking 
of something else. Dost thou recall what Paul 
wrote in his Epistle to the Corinthians? 



FAITH—COMFORTER 


223 


‘God . . . will not suffer you to be tempted 
above that ye are able; but will with the tempta¬ 
tion also make a way to escape, that ye may be 
able to bear it.’ There is strength and comfort 
for . . . for us, in that thought, Mark. Only 
those whose spirits are strong enough to overcome 
in the end, are permitted to undergo great trials—• 
The Book saith it. And surely strange temptations 
are ever being placed in thy way. It is a test, 
Mark; thou art summoned to battle.” 

“If thou thinkest so . . .” 

“I do, and I believe that this afternoon thou hast 
won a partial victory over thyself. Thou hast 
complied with the injunction of the Apostle 
Matthew, at least, by turning thine other 
cheek.” 

“Now thou art trying to comfort me, and half 
condoning my fault. I truly complied with the 
letter, but not with the spirit of the command.” 

“If I had been in thy place . . .” the girl began, 
her eyes flashing.” 

“Faith!” 

“Nay, I do not know what I should have done if 
he had struck me thus. Oh, misfortune seems 
to follow thy footsteps, and my heart acheth for 
thee, Mark. Thy chief fault to-day, it seemeth 
to me, was in accepting the pistol in the first place, 
for well thou knowest that we who bear the name 
of Friends are strictly forbidden to follow the pur¬ 
suit of frivolous pastime and commanded to turn 



224 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


our eyes from things of war. ‘He that taketh the 
sword,’ Mark.” 

“I know. But the impulse was irresistible. I 
cannot hope to explain it to thee for I cannot under¬ 
stand it myself. It seemed as natural for me to 
grasp and to fire that revolver as to hold and strike 
with the blacksmith’s hammer. And I felt—I 
feel —as certain of hitting the mark with the one 
as with the other.” 

“But why? It seemeth to me like something re¬ 
quiring great skill acquired by long practice. Mr. 
Hibbard, thou saidst, was in the war and used a 
weapon often, yet he missed even the larger target.” 

“I had not thought of that. It seemed entirely 
easy,” responded Mark, with a puzzled note in 
his voice. 

“It is all beyond my simple comprehension. But 
let us think no more of it. What is done, is done. 
A past misstep is never mended by worrying about 
it, but by walking all the more carefully thereafter,” 
said Faith, and added, after a moment’s pause, 
“Mark.” 

“Yea.” 

“Iam glad that thou hast told me, and brought thy 
trouble to me.” 

“I, too, am glad . . . now.” 

“Always do so. Please, Mark. Thou art still 
troubled! Wilt thou then treat my orders so 
lightly ?” She smiled, a little wanly; then let her 
clear eyes look directly into his, as she continued. 



FAITH—COMFORTER 


225 


“Even Our Lord struggled with temptation for forty 
days in the wilderness, and surely we cannot hope to 
overcome it in less. I have faith in thee, still; I shall 
always have faith in thee.” 

He rose to his feet with the light of her great love 
mirrored on his face. His hand sought her’s and he 
drew her close—almost, but not quite, to his breast. 
“God be thanked that there are women like thee on 
earth, to minister and to teach!” he exclaimed. 
“How can other religious bodies, who take the name 
of Christ, deny to women the divine right to preach 
His gospel, when some of them are but a little lower 
than the angels, and men spiritually so far beneath 
them? St. Paul was not always inspired. Thou 
art, indeed, a light to lighten my darkness and guide 
my feet, even as father said.” 

“Thy father? He said that?” 

“Yea, this very noontime. He guessed my love 
for thee, which I was glad to confess, and he ap¬ 
pro veth of it.” 

A deeper color tinted her neck and cheeks. “Oh, 
I am happy in that thought, Mark. And it should 
strengthen thee, also. And now I must leave thee 
to prepare our evening meal. I would like to ask 
thee to remain, but I fear that it would not be 
seemly.” She hesitated, and dropped her eyes. 
“Canst thou . . . canst thou not return this even¬ 
ing and join us in our hour of prayer?” 

Mark pressed both her hands fervently. 

“Can I? My dear one.” 



226 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 

When Mark reached the Gray homestead, a few 
moments later, he was panting heavily and wet with 
perspiration. There was a strange look on his 
drawn face, the sight of which brought a stab of 
dismay to the heart of Sister Patience as she saw 
it through the kitchen window. He appeared to be 
laboring under the spell of some tremendous emo¬ 
tion which he was striving to keep in check. 

Opening the side door for him, she cried, “Mark! 
Lad, art thou ill? See, thou art even trembling 
and thy countenance is as pale as death. What has 
happened ?” 

For a moment he did not answer, and to her see¬ 
ing eye it was evident that he was struggling hard 
to conquer his agitation over something. Finally he 
laughed, mechanically, and patted her arm. 

“Nay, Sister Patience. I am quite well. I have 
merely been running . . . running fast, so that I 
might not be late for the wonderful supper whose 
savory odors I can now smell. Besides, I had double 
need to hasten, for I am going out again, the in¬ 
stant it is eaten.” 

“Art thou? Where, Mark?” 

He merely laughed, more naturally, and stepped 
past her to the basin waiting in the kitchen sink, 
filled with refreshing ice-cold water. 




CHAPTER XX 


ACCUSED 

A little more than an hour had elapsed. The 
front room of the Franklyn farmhouse now held a 
small gathering—Faith and the two children, Jere- 
niah Jones and Mark. Jeremiah was still squeamish 
inside but mentally sober and remorseful, although 
the destruction of his treasured wig had something 
to do with that. 

Mark had hoped for at least a few moments alone 
with Faith, but, as the time for his arrival ap¬ 
proached, she had suddenly become panic-stricken 
over the thought of her temerity in asking him to 
return, and had purposely kept the rest close by her. 
The girl’s gentle word was law, there. 

Disappointment and a marked nervousness in 
Mark’s manner had been noticeable at first, but now 
both were yielding to the peaceful atmosphere of the 
little home, and Faith was happy. Mark, too, found 
himself well content merely to sit in the straight- 
backed chair which scarcely held his bulk, and gaze in 
silence at the girl in whom all his hopes were bound 
up. Pleasant day-dreams took possession of his 
mind. The time might come, and soon, when she 

would be sitting close beside him thus, each night, 

227 


228 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


busy with her needle, after his day’s labor had 
ended. 

The shadows of the evening hour were fast clos¬ 
ing in upon the home, enfolding it and its occupants 
in their intangible mantle, but the lamp had not 
yet been lighted. Strict economy was Faith’s watch¬ 
word. The mistress of the home was sitting close 
by the window so that the sunset glow might illumi¬ 
nate her sewing to the last moment, and the sweet¬ 
ness of her profile as it showed against the fading 
color in the western sky, and the faint aureole 
which appeared about her head, caused Mark’s heart 
to throb faster with pure delight. 

At length she laid aside her work with a little 
sigh. “It is growing too dark for me to sew longer 
—I sometimes wish that the daylight lasted twenty- 
four hours, there is so much to be done.” 

“ ‘He giveth to His beloved sleep’ and the hours 
of darkness for a wise purpose,” put in Mark. 

“I know. What should we do without them, and 
it? Well, we shall have to light the lamp, shortly, 
but meditation seemeth to me to come with the 
shadow-hour, and the soul hath need of it . . . and 
prayer. Shall we not all join in them, silently, for 
a little while? David and Hope have been good 
children, all through the day I think, but perhaps 
even they know of some tiny sin which is tucked 
away in a corner of their hearts, and by asking 
God’s forgiveness for it they will sleep better. As 
for us, who are grown up, surely we are all in con- 




ACCUSED 


229 


tinual need of seeking guidance from Him, for to 
err is human.” 

It was as natural for Faith Franklyn to speak 
after this manner, as for the girl of the city to dis¬ 
cuss a new style or a new play. If such a suggestion 
had been made by the youthful hostess of a gather¬ 
ing in the average home throughout the land, embar¬ 
rassment or even consternation would certainly have 
followed it. But not in Content. It was alike nor¬ 
mal and customary. All five forthwith knelt down, 
with folded hands resting on their chair seats, eyes 
closed and heads humbly bent. Perhaps Jeremiah 
did not actually pray, but Faith’s simple words had 
redoubled his remorse, and his silent shame was in 
a sense a petition for forgiveness. Perhaps neither 
David nor the little Hope prayed, for the world be¬ 
yond seemed something unreal and very far away 
to their childish thoughts, yet it is actually very near 
to childhood, for the soul has not had long to walk 
from the light into the shadow of worldly evils. 
Perhaps Mark’s conscious prayer was brief, for he 
was a man, and young. But Faith solemnly and 
sincerely opened her heart to heaven; for she was 
a woman, and devout. 

For a time the silence within the room was broken 
only by Pat’s contented purring, as she rubbed back 
and forth against Jeremiah’s thigh. Then it was 
sharply interrupted by other sounds; heavy foot¬ 
steps upon the porch, a loud rap on the door. All 
looked up, the two children eagerly, the others with 




230 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


astonishment. And this expression deepened on 
Faith’s countenance as she arose to her feet and 
opened the front door. It was almost entirely dark 
on the little porch, but the forms of three men were 
vaguely visible. Three men, at that time of night! 
What could it mean? 

A voice demanded, “Is Friend Mark Gray within 
thine home, Sister Faith Franklyn?” 

“Yea, Friend Daniel Goodbody. He hath joined 
our little household circle for evening prayer, in 
which we have just now engaged as the light failed.” 
The darkness in the room demanded explanation. 
“Dost thou wish to speak with him? Wait one 
moment and I will light the lamp,” she added. 

At the sound of the deep masculine voice from the 
porch Mark had started, for he recognized it as that 
of a near neighbor, who—although of his father’s 
generation—had always been truly his friend. 
Could anything have happened at home to send 
Daniel Goodbody here in quest of him. Faith had 
stepped back inside the door, and now struck a 
match. Mark took it from her hand and guarded 
the flickering flame from the draft through the open 
door until she had brought the lamp and turned up 
the wick to meet it. The circle of yellow radiance 
spread until it took in the group standing at the 
doorway. In front was Goodbody, a slender mild¬ 
faced man with almost white hair and steel-rimmed 
spectacles, who looked like the peaceful scholar 
which he was, and yet upon whose thin shoulders 




ACCUSED 


281 


rested the cloak of civil authority in Content. 
Even that simple village had need to invoke the 
majesty of the law on occasion, and he was constable 
and Justice of the Peace. Behind him, side by side, 
appeared the mighty form of the village smith, and 
the tall but slighter figure of Mr. John Hibbard. 
Their faces were still in the night shadow. 

Even as Faith and Mark were, with somewhat 
unsteady hands, lighting the lamp, Daniel Good- 
body had made answer to the girl’s question, and 
now her hands flew up, to press, one over the other, 
upon her beating heart in the world-old feminine 
gesture. “I must see him, at once, although it is 
furthest from my wish,” he had said, in a manner 
which added gravity to his words, and made the 
sentence seem one freighted with evil portent. 

The new-comers stepped inside and all three re¬ 
garded Mark with expressions of distress, but vary¬ 
ing from accusation on the face of the justice to 
anguish on that of John Gray. 

“What . . .?” began Faith, in a trembling 
voice. She unconsciously drew closer to Mark’s 
side, while little Hope—on the verge of unhappy 
tears because she, too, possessed a little woman’s 
intuition that something grievous had happened— 
reached up and grasped his hand on the other side. 

“Mark Grav,” announced the officer, in a tone 
filled with misery, “Mark Gray, I would willingly 
surrender mine office rather than do what is now my 
duty, and which I have made affirmation to per- 




232 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 

form. I have come to ... to arrest thee, in the 
name of the law, Mark Gray.” 

Faith uttered a low, horror-stricken cry, and 
swayed against her lover’s shoulder. 

“Arrest me? Arrest me? But why?” Un¬ 
feigned amazement was the predominating note in 
Mark’s demand. 

Goodbody turned to the smith, upon whose face 
agony was almost visibly drawing new lines. 
“Wilt thou tell him, Friend John?” 

“It is thine office. I ... I cannot speak.” 

The other faced Mark again, and said, speaking 
very slowly, “Alas, my boy, that ever I should 
have to say these words to thee, but thou art 
formally charged with criminal assault with a 
deadly weapon, upon one Robert Means, and an at¬ 
tempt to ... to murder him.” 

The silence which followed this stunning sentence 
was broken by a bitter wail from Hope. She could 
not fully comprehend, but it was something awful. 
Mark mechanically reached out his shaking hand 
and touched her golden curls as she pressed her 
face against his side. And when words came they 
were uttered mechanically, as though his mind were 
too bewildered to respond at once either to anger or 
anguish. 

“'An attempt to murder him?’ To murder 
. . .? Why . . . why. . . .” 

“It is my further duty to caution thee, Mark 



ACCUSED 


233 


Gray. Whatever thou sayest now may be used 
against thee.” 

“What should I say that could be used against 
me? I can only tell the truth. I did not do it! 
Why, how could I have done it? He was the one 
that had the weapon. It was he who fired at me!” 

At Mark’s first declaration of his innocence, 
Faith’s heart had leaped with happiness almost too 
great to be borne, but when he added the words, 
“He was the one that had the weapon,” it stopped 
and seemed to congeal within her breast. She grew 
cold all over, and felt the blood drain from her face. 
What was he saying? He had had a pistol; worse 
than that, he had it still! As she leaned against his 
tense body she could feel the sinister metal thing in¬ 
side his pocket pressed hard into her right arm. 

The damning weapon was in his possession, now. 
What if they should search him, and find it? The 
question of Mark’s guilt or innocence of the terrible 
crime with which he was charged, or whether he had 
told a deliberate falsehood, could not at that moment 
so much as creep into her mind, so full it was with 
that single overwhelming thought. There was no 
time for debate between Right and Wrong; no 
Homeric struggle took place within her soul; the 
knowledge that she—a Quaker—was acting in con¬ 
tradiction to the teachings of her religion and every 
tradition of her faith had no place in her thoughts. 
She was nothing, then, but a woman, at bay by the 
side of the man she loved with all her being, whom 



234 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


her heart had chosen for its mate, and to whom she 
had pledged her aid whatever happened and for¬ 
ever and forever. 

Swiftly but cautiously she drew up her arm and 
thrust her hand into the pocket where the weapon 
lay. Her seeking fingers closed upon it. She 
started to draw it out; to hide it behind her. 

Mark felt the touch of her hand and, startled, 
drew away a little, at the same instant looking down 
at his side. His own face blanched and then flushed 
crimson. 

Daniel Goodbody had seen the gleam of steel 1 
He stepped forward and almost gently loosened the 
girl's fingers from the pistol barrel. With a sob. 
she dropped into a chair and buried her face in her 
hands. The look which the officer gave her held 
censure, pity—and understanding. He stood a 
moment without speaking; then, turning again to 
Mark, said with stern accusation, “Mark Gray, thou 
saidst that thou didst not have a pistol.” He held 
the weapon up before the other’s eyes. 

“I did. I had no thought of lying, for of a verity 
I had forgotten it. It was truly in my possession, 
but I did not use it.” 

“To whom does this thing of wickedness belong?” 

“To ... to Robert Means. But . . .” 

“Wait.” He turned to Hibbard. “Doth this in¬ 
deed belong to thy companion?” 

“Yes,” answered Hibbard. “And I can tell you 
how it came into Mark’s possession—I was al- 



ACCUSED 


235 


together to blame for it, and I wish to heaven, 
gentlemen, that I had never brought Means here.” 
Rather graphically he recounted the story of what 
had occurred at the gravel pit. Mark nodded his 
agreement, and briefly explained how he had brought 
the pistol away with him, and placed it in his 
pocket intending to return it. 

Goodbody said, “Thy former statement is in part 
explained, but the fact that thou didst have a weapon 
in thy possession is against thee, I fear.” He 
turned to Hibbard again and handed him the revol- 
ver r remarking, “I know naught about the work¬ 
ings of this or any weapon. Canst thou, by open¬ 
ing it, determine whether or not bullets have been 
discharged from it?” 

The other examined the cartridge chamber, and 
responded, “Four of the five cartridges have been 
fired, but that may mean nothing at all for we had 
been using it in shooting at the target and I could 
not swear how many were discharged there, after 
the last loading.” He looked at Mark with dis¬ 
tress, for he wanted to believe the Quaker innocent, 
yet realized that the circumstantial evidence was 
piling up heavily against him, in possible collabora¬ 
tion of Means’ story of the assault, which he had 
yet to tell. 

Faith seemed to read something of his thoughts, 
and now she sprang to her feet, clasping Mark’s arm 
with both her hands, and crying, “Mark, Mark! 
Tell him again that thou art innocent! They must 



236 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


believe it, even as I do.” As she spoke the last 
words in a voice which rang like a clear challenge 
to them all, she raised her tear-filled eyes and looked 
straight and searchingly into his. For an instant 
it was as though the unwavering gaze of each 
reached deep into the very soul of the other. Then 
Faith lifted her hands from the man’s arm to his 
shoulders, and he drew her close in one single, swift 
embrace. 

John Gray viewed the scene with eyes which sud¬ 
denly grew misty, and, as Mark released the girl, 
he took one long stride forward and seized his hand 
in a powerful clasp. “My son. My son! I, too, 
believe in thee,” he exclaimed, brokenly, then whis¬ 
pered, “O Lord, forgive Thou mine unbelief.” 

“Darn it, so do I believe you!” Hibbard was the 
next to affirm his faith and spring forward to grasp 
Mark’s hand, while Faith hid her face on the smith’s 
great breast. 

“Nay, now I scarce care what happens,” Mark 
rejoiced. “If Faith, my father and this new friend 
believe in me. . . .” 

“Thou mayest count me in, as well,” announced 
Goodbody, heartily, and both David and little Hope 
added their childish, “And me, and me.” 

“All this is cause for happiness, but we must face 
the fact that thou art still within the deep shadows, 
Mark,” the constable continued. “Thou must re¬ 
main for a while, at least, in my custody.” 

“I understand. But now I want to hear all that 



ACCUSED 


237 


hath happened, and the full but assuredly false 
charge against me. It must be plausible, for I saw 
doubt of me upon the faces of you all, when you 
entered the room. Yea, on thine, too, father.” 

“I know, my son. I was shaken to the very 
depths of my being by the story which thy friend 
Hibbard told, when he came seeking thee with 
Friend Daniel; the more so because thou wilt re¬ 
member that thine own behavior, upon returning 
home was passing strange—as though something 
had occurred to upset thee greatly.” 

“Stop, Friend John,” Goodbody interrupted. “I 
beg of thee to guard thy tongue before these wit¬ 
nesses.” 

“Nay, the whole truth must be told, and surely 
Mark hath no wish to seek evasion of it.” 

“None.” 

“Then we will let the city man tell what he hath 
to tell, and Mark, thou shalt answer.” 

“I hated to do this, Mark, but I had to,” began 
Mr. Hibbard. “Bob Means really has been wounded 
and he was raving—besides, he was my guest, and 
in a sense under my charge. Finally, his story 
sounded at least plausible, as you said. This after¬ 
noon’s unfortunate quarrel between the two of you 
furnished a background which was hard to put out 
of sight.” 

“I know, to my sorrow and my shame. I bear 
thee no ill-will, friend—perhaps this evil thing which 
hath befallen me is a righteous punishment for my 



238 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


behavior to-day, although the charge itself is ground¬ 
less.” 

“ ‘Righteous punishment’ ? Nonsense. You acted 
with astonishing restraint and let Means off 
too easy.” 

“Nay . . . but continue thy story.” 

Hibbard hastily outlined what had occurred after 
Mark’s departure from the gravel pit. He had, he 
said, with difficulty got Means back to the tent, 
where he had set to drinking heavily again. With 
a word of apology to Faith, the speaker added, “And 
I hoped that he would get himself dead drunk and 
then sleep off his passion with the liquor.” 

Instead, the whiskey had somewhat steadied him 
and he had finally announced that he meant to return 
to the pit and get both of the revolvers which had 
been forgotten and left behind there—at least, they 
had so far as he knew. Hibbard had let him go, 
gladly, well satisfied to be free of him for a while, 
and not once thinking that he might meet with Mark 
again. He had himself set about the preparation of 
their supper. Then he continued, “Within a very 
few minutes I heard the sound of a shot from that di¬ 
rection. It startled me, for my own nerves were a 
bit on edge, as you can imagine, but I concluded 
that Bob—that is to say, Mr. Means—was again 
firing at the target. However, remembering his 
condition, I was worried and had started to look 
him up, when I heard a second pistol crack. 

“I had just reached the brow of our hill, and 




ACCUSED 


239 


across the field caught sight of some one running 
rapidly and on the point of disappearing over the 
top of the further rise. I could not be sure who it 
was, but ... but it looked a lot like you, Mark.” 

“It was me,” answered the young Quaker, with¬ 
out hesitation. 

“So? Then I was right . . . I’m sorry to say. 
Well, then I heard Means calling, frantically. His 
voice indicated that he was in pain. I ran as hard 
as I could in the direction of it and finally located 
him, lying in the field which you must just have 
crossed. He said, Tm shot, Jack! That, . . .’ 
never mind, I won’t repeat his words, . . . ‘picked 
another quarrel and deliberately shot me.’ ” 

“Oh!” broke in Mark, unable longer to restrain 
his rising anger. “The evil and foul-mouthed son. 
of Satan, prince of liars!” 

“Hush, hush, Mark!” Faith whispered, as she 
took his clenched hand in both of hers and pressed 
it gently. 

“I could not believe him, at first,” went on Hib¬ 
bard. “But as I half-helped, half-carried him back 
to the camp, he panted out a story which seemed to 
hang together, and put my heart down in my boots 
on your account, the more so because I blamed my¬ 
self for all that had previously happened. He said 
that he had failed to find either of the revol¬ 
vers. . . .” 

Mark would have interrupted again, but the girl 
raised one of her hands and laid it upon his lips. 




240 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“ . . . And was about to return when you ap¬ 
peared from the direction of the Franklyn farm¬ 
house.” 

“That, at least, is true,” exclaimed Mark. 

“He went on to say that, when you caught sight 
of him, you cried, ‘Now that thy companion is not 
here to save thee I am going to kill thee, because of 
the name which thou hast called me,’ and drew one 
of the weapons from your pocket.” 

“Oh!” 

“Wait. You might as well hear the whole story 
at once. He was frightened, so he said—for which 
I could not blame him, knowing your ability—and 
started to run across the field. You followed, still 
threatening him, and he finally turned and grappled 
with you. The revolver was exploded once in the 
air, according to his account, but you discharged it 
a second time, wounding him in the leg, and then 
ran.” 

Mark laughed, harshly and unnaturally. “A 
pretty story, and a likely one! Dost thou think 
that if I had grappled with him, he could have pre¬ 
vented me from shooting him through the heart at 
the outset, had I so desired, or that I would have 
needed a pistol at all with which to kill him?” Un¬ 
conscious of what he was doing, he extended his 
arms and tensed his mighty muscles until the bulg¬ 
ing of them showed through his coat sleeves. 

“No,” answered Hibbard. “Damned—pardon 
me—if I do, or did; although I know that men who 




ACCUSED 


241 


have been drinking or are sufficiently frightened 
often developed a frenzied strength far in excess of 
that of which they are capable normally. I merely 
thought that he was romancing a bit, to save his 
face. But he was so insistent that you had done it, 
that—after I had given him army first aid, the bul¬ 
let having, fortunately, merely gone clean through 
the fleshy part of his leg—I yielded to his demand 
that when I went to the village to try and hunt up 
a doctor I also find a constable and procure your 
arrest.” 

“I understand. It was clearly thy duty, Friend 
Hibbard. But his story was all a lie. This is the 
truth of it. We met, even as he said, and I—know¬ 
ing the danger of such a meeting, for I could see 
that he was hot with drink and mine own temper 
is far from mild—would have given him a wide 
berth. But he ran towards me, calling me vile 
epithets, waving his pistol, and daring me to fight. 
I but ran the faster, for I was frightened—for the 
first time in my life, I think. But I was looking 
back at him and stumbled, and before I could arise 
he had overtaken me.” 

In growing excitement Mark now began to act 
out the incident, as he hastened on, “I seized his 
wrist and twisted it hard, to make him drop the 
weapon. He did so, with a cry, but not before it 
had gone off, once, into the air. He stood there, 
holding his wrist and cursing me; and, although all 
of the fiends of hell seemed to be loose within my 




242 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


heart and urging me to strike him again, I did not, 
but turned and ran on, after first kicking the revol¬ 
ver to one side. He continued to scream after me, 
words which I can never forget, but I only ran the 
faster. Then I heard a second shot and knew that 
he had recovered the weapon and was firing at me, 
but the next instant I had crossed the hilltop, and 
was out of his sight. That is the truth; Faith, 
father. Was it not enough to account for mine ap¬ 
pearance on arriving home?” 

“I’ll say that it was,” Hibbard answered for them, 
and Daniel Goodbody added, “Yea. All of us here 
surely believe thine account of the matter, and I 
doubt not but that the trial justice will, likewise. 
But this is a black and bitter time for thee, Mark. 
Many in Content will doubt thee. ...” 

“And there are some who wilt rejoice at my 
downfall,” said the man, grimly. 

“Nay, speak not so bitterly, Mark,” cried Faith. 
“The just God, who sendeth the glowing day to 
follow the night, wilt be thy shield and buckler in 
this new battle which thou hast to fight, almost 
alone. And surely our confidence in thee will also 
help to sustain and strengthen thee, my dear, my 
dear.” 

“Amen,” John Gray added, huskily. 

“Come, Mark. Remember that Paul was in 
prison often, and the Lord God delivered him, as 
He wilt thee, perhaps to be more truly His follower 
because of thine affliction. To those that are in- 



ACCUSED 


243 


nocent its walls are no disgrace.’’ The constable 
turned and Mark, with bowed head, followed him 
to the door. Hope was weeping again. 

Faith did not move from her place until they had 
reached the threshold, but stood with quivering lips 
and tear-filled eyes. Suddenly she ran to him, cry¬ 
ing, “Mark, Mark. How can I let thee go?” 

For just an instant he pressed her close to his 
breast, then he turned sharply away and with 
proudly lifted head strode out into the darkness of 
the night. 



CHAPTER XXI 


THE TEMPEST 

Sensations, like misfortunes, seem to occur in 
epidemics. A man, or a locality, will plod along an 
unvaryingly monotonous path for years, each suc¬ 
ceeding day merely morning, afternoon, and night, 
like its predecessor. Then, suddenly, all of the pos¬ 
sible incidents and accidents which might have been 
met with along the road, but were not, happen all 
at once—like things in a nightmare from which the 
victim awakes to find himself drenched with cold 
perspiration and panting for breath. And after 
it is all over the participant catches himself won¬ 
dering if it were not a dream. Why, such things 
couldn’t have happened to him! Yet he knows that 
they did. 

/ Mark Gray and the whole peaceful village of Con¬ 
tent were now fully embarked on such a brief but 
tempestuous journey—one which was to stir the 
Quaker community as it had never been stirred in 
its existence. 

There was but one telephone in the place, at Dex¬ 
ter’s general store, yet the story of Mark’s “crime” 
and the news of his arrest were all over Content be¬ 
fore it had retired for the night. Dyer Dexter 

244 


THE TEMPEST 


245 


dwelt but a quarter of a mile from the Goodbody 
homestead, and although the constable lived up to 
his surname, his wife—a sore trial to him and a 
test of his Quaker patience—might better have been 
called “busybody.'’ She had overheard the charge 
made by Mr. Hibbard to her husband, and the pair 
had hardly departed in quest of Mark before she was 
out of the back door and in the front door of the 
Dexter homestead, from which central station the 
news had been broadcast by means of a form of 
wireless in use ages and ages before mechanical 
transmitters of messages were so much as thought 
of. And needless to say, the one-sided story be¬ 
came more and more distorted with every repetition. 

Few households went to bed, that night, without 
knowledge of the amazing fact that the one room 
shed with its single barred window, behind the Good- 
body homestead, had been cleaned of the spare 
tools and odds and ends which the local justice had 
fallen into the habit of storing there, and contained 
its second prisoner within the memory of living men. 
Some years previous Jeremiah Jones had occupied 
it for one night, having been placed there primarily 
because Friend Daniel, who had found him lying 
by the roadside, was unwilling to disturb the Frank- 
lyn family, and considered it a proper spot for him 
to sleep off the effects of a drunken orgy. Also as 
a warning. 

In many a home an upright Quaker parent seized 
upon the occasion to read his brood a long and se- 



246 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


rious lecture upon the wages of sin and the just retri¬ 
bution which befalls the man who deviates ever so 
slightly from the straight and narrow path. In 
many another the long evening prayer contained 
a heartfelt petition that he who was in prison might 
soon be free, found guiltless, and that in the mean¬ 
time his soul might be sustained by the everlasting 
arms. Four individuals, in particular, remained 
long upon their knees that night with heads bowed 
down in grief. They were John Gray, Sister 
Patience, Faith, and Mark, himself. 

At last all save one light flickered and went out, 
and sleep spread her silent wings over the village. 

But there was no slumber for Mark Gray. Even 
if his thoughts would have allowed him to sleep, 
he would have found the narrow cot bed which had 
been placed there for his use too small to hold his 
form. Four strides eastward, four strides west¬ 
ward, he continued to pace through the long hours, 
now and again pausing at the barred window to 
look out into the darkness of the night. 

The sky overhead was clear—a canopy of velvet 
of the darkest blue-black, against which innumerable 
stars shimmered and the nearer planets shone with a 
calm and friendly light. They held a peaceful in¬ 
spiration, but meant less to the man than did one 
nearer at hand which sent forth its mellow beam 
from an upper room in the Franklyn farmhouse, 
half a mile distant, with a steady message of com¬ 
fort. Yet it brought him also added pain. Mark 



THE TEMPEST 


247 


understood that Faith was keeping it burning there 
as a token of her love and fidelity; but he likewise 
knew that she had not retired, and the knowledge 
of her mental anguish on his account added greatly 
to the burden which he had to bear. 

Thus minutes dragged out into hours, and the 
night passed. To the young man, who had never 
experienced a full night of sleeplessness, the very 
seconds, ticked off by his inexpensive silver watch, 
seemed to march slowly by to the drum-throbs of 
his heart in an unending funeral procession. Phys¬ 
ical discomfort was added to mental. Not only 
were his quarters cramped, but the May night was 
unseasonably and oppressively hot. 

At length, towards early morning, came a change, 
almost imperceptible at first. One by one the stars 
in the western heavens disappeared, blotted out by 
a rising billow of clouds, the outlines of which were 
from time to time sharply disclosed by the pale glare 
of more remote lightning. Miles away thunder 
growled like the sound of distant battle. A faint 
stirring of cooler air fanned Mark’s cheek as he 
pressed it against one of the bars. He greeted the 
change with pleasure, for a tempest promised both 
relief from the sultry heat and something to watch 
and take his mind off his troubles. 

Under the drive of a rapidly rising wind the 
storm came on apace and soon was spending its 
fury overhead. The little building trembled anew 
at each thunder crash; the rolling fields, the shining 



248 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


silver streamlet threading through them, and the 
dark patches of grove on the hillsides were alter¬ 
nately thrown into photographic relief by the light¬ 
ning's flash and swallowed up in a blackness which 
seemed, by contrast, doubly black. There was al¬ 
most no rain—an occasional spatter of flying drops 
—but every bough and branch with fluttering green 
drapery joined in a furious dance to the mad chant 
of the storm winds among them. 

Mark gloried in the tempest’s on-coming, but 
when it was directly overhead the crashing fury of 
it subdued, if it did not actually frighten, him. Once 
he caught himself with a queer feeling in the pit 
of his stomach and wondering whether or not a bolt 
might actually strike the building and put an abrupt 
end to the tragedy which had overtaken him. He 
caught himself almost wishing that it might, and 
was straightway ashamed of the wish and childishly 
frightened at having given it birth. Supposing that 
He, who hears even the unasked petitions of His 
children, should grant it! Even the sanest, most 
modern man has moments of reversion to primitive 
fear like that. 

Another cause for anxiety quickly drove from his 
mind any thoughts of self. The Franklyn farm was 
too far distant for him actually to see Faith close 
the blinds of her bedroom window, but the consol¬ 
ing light was suddenly cut off. He knew that she 
was alone, perhaps terrified, for the storm was ex¬ 
ceptionally severe. His breast ached to hold her 




THE TEMPEST 


249 


\ 


close and comfort her. He had done it, once, twice, 
and his arms felt their emptiness. 

Came a terrific flash and the shock of the thunder 
clap simultaneously. He had been looking up, and 
saw the blinding white bolt streak downward, but 
the intensity of its glare seared his eye-balls and 
robbed him of sight. With the speed of the light¬ 
ning itself the thought went through his mind, 
“The building has been struck!” 

He was wrong. The bolt had grounded itself a 
quarter of a mile away—through the ell chimney 
of Faith’s homestead. 

Mark regained his power of vision in time to see 
the toppling chimney fall and slide down the steep 
roof, as another flash illuminated the scene. He 
stood tense and motionless—almost paralyzed. 
There followed another period of darkness which 
seemed to stretch over an age, but before it ended 
his straining eyes could see a tiny glow and tongue 
of flame. The shingles, dry as tinder from the 
prolonged draught, had caught fire! 

Fairly beside himself with terror on Faith’s ac¬ 
count, Mark turned and leaped through the dark¬ 
ness across the room, at the same time shouting 
aloud with all the strength of his powerful lungs. 
But against the sounds of the storm his cry had as 
little chance of being heard within the Goodbody 
home, as though it had been uttered by a Lilliputian. 
He flung all the weight of his muscular body as a 
human battering ram against the door. It sprung 



250 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and bent, but still held. Again and yet again he 
assaulted it with frenzied strength, regardless of 
the bruises it dealt to his broad shoulder. At last 
the staple which held the padlock on the outside 
pulled out, the door flew open, and he went sprawl¬ 
ing headlong to the ground. 

The tempest was retreating eastward as fast as 
it had come, its work in that locality completed. 
An intermittent but increasingly steady flame ap¬ 
peared on the roof of the ell. Mark sprang to his 
feet and raced to the door of the near-by homestead. 
With heavy fists he flayed upon it until every knuckle 
was bruised and bleeding, and at length the ham¬ 
mering and his shouting brought the constable to 
one of the windows. 

“The Franklyn farmhouse . . . struck ... on 
fire. Come quick!” He panted out and then dashed 
off into the night. 

The fast-receding flares of lightning were of oc¬ 
casional service to him in illuminating his path 
across the uneven field, but during the periods of 
darkness he many times stumbled over ruts and 
rocks or crashed headfirst into impeding clumps of 
bushes. The thunder still rumbled and crashed in 
the east, the wind moaned and sometimes seemed to 
chuckle, gleefully, as it fanned the flame now 
spreading along the ridgepole of the roof before him. 

He could see no signs of life within the house— 
indeed, the sound of the storm had swallowed that 
of the single lightning bolt, and Faith, in her dis- 




THE TEMPEST 


251 


tant front room, had no idea that her home had 
been struck. 

“O God, tell them . . . tell them!” he prayed as 
he ran. “Why doesn’t Faith hear?” 

In two minutes of hard running he had reached 
the house and was pounding loudly on the front 
door. Faith came quickly—although the interval 
seemed another age to Mark—unlocked and opened 
it. She was carrying her bedroom lamp, the yellow 
light of which showed her to be partially undressed, 
for she had just then hastily thrown a light wrap¬ 
per over her simple underwear, and her startled 
face was set in the tumbling mass of her unloosed 
hair. In contrast to the formal primness of her 
usual attire this negligee made her appear irresistibly 
attractive, but Mark scarcely noticed it at all, nor 
yet the expression of astonishment which crept into 
her countenance as she recognized her nocturnal 
visitor. She had been thinking constantly of him; 
now he had appeared before her as though in an¬ 
swer to her prayer and her one thought was, “Mark 
is no longer in prison.” 

The man grasped her arm, convulsively, crying, 
“For heaven’s sake come out, quick. Where are 
the children—David . . . Hope?” 

“Why, Mark . . .” she started to answer, com¬ 
pletely bewildered. 

“Don’t stop to talk. The house is on fire—the 
ell’s burning up. Oh, where are they, Faith?” 

Even as he was speaking and pushing by her into 





252 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the house, David appeared at the head of the stairs 
in his nightgown, with his eyes wide circles in his 
startled face. All the cannonading of the thunder 
had not aroused him from the deep sleep of healthy 
childhood, but Mark’s voice, calling his name, had 
brought him out of bed. 

“Oh!” exclaimed the startled girl. “David, thy 
sister! Get her quickly. The house is afire.” 

Mark was already halfway up the steep stairs, 
covering three at a time. He sprang past the boy, 
who had turned to the door of the bedroom shared 
by him and little Hope, and caught the sleeping child 
up in one strong arm while she gave voice to a 
drowsy, whimpering protest. Hastily folding her 
in the sheet and then snatching a thin comforter 
from the foot of the bed and a bundle of neatly 
folded child’s clothing from a near-by chair, he 
hurried the little family downstairs again and out 
upon the porch. 

With an audible breath of relief, he surrendered 
the small girl to Faith’s arms. Already the flicker¬ 
ing reflection of the fire appeared on the ground at 
the back of the house. 

“Jeremiah sleepeth in the barn loft—like the two 
children he must have slumbered through it all,” 
said Faith, and Mark found himself actually able 
to laugh as he answered, “But not for the same rea¬ 
son, I fear.” 

He was off at full speed around the corner of 
the house, and as he ran he looked up at the ell roof. 




THE TEMPEST 


253 


The tinder-dry shingles were all ablaze for several 
square yards about the chimney, and red lines of 
fire were creeping steadily along the edges of others, 
towards the main part of the dwelling. 

His shouts of “Jeremiah! Jeremiah, the house 
is on fire! Wake up!” preceded him, and when he 
reached and slid open the big barn door the dazed 
man-of-all-work was swaying on the top rung of his 
ladder. He was bare-footed, still, but he had suc¬ 
ceeded in pulling on an old pair of overalls over the 
soiled shirt in which he had been sleeping. One 
strap was over his shoulder, the other flapped aim¬ 
lessly by his side. 

“What the tarnation ... ?” he querulously be¬ 
gan, but descended quickly enough when Mark ex¬ 
plained and bade him hasten to get buckets and a 
ladder. The words were barely out of his mouth 
before he was off again, headed for the side porch 
with its trellis heavy with rambler roses, to which 
the daylight would soon impart tones of pink and 
deep red. Without pausing, he started to climb 
up it. Against the light of the growing fire the 
lattice work stood out like black tracery. Almost 
every second time that he attempted to thrust his 
big, square-toed boot into the intersections the frail 
laths broke. But the sturdy vine and its sinew¬ 
like tendrils helped to furnish a foothold for him 
now and then, and although they broke often he 
half-pulled, half-scrambled up it, somehow. 

The jutting eve of the roof was but a temporary 




254 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


obstacle. Chinning himself on every available 
bough had always been one of Mark’s “childish 
pastimes’’—as his neighbors designated it—and now 
it stood him in good stead. Gripping the edge of 
the roof with one hand and digging the fingernails 
of the other into the shingles above, he pulled the 
dead weight of his one-hundred and ninety pound 
body up and over it with one effort which started 
the sweat all over him. Then, on his knees and 
bleeding hands, he crawled along the roof and to 
the burning ell. 

The flames were leaping higher and higher as 
though with exultation over their sudden growth, 
and smaller ones were licking hungrily at the same 
strengthening fuel upon which their big brothers 
had fed. The shingles were old and warped, the 
nails loose, and Mark, standing half upright, now 
began frantically to kick them off and send them 
tumbling over and over down through the semi¬ 
darkness, flaming in their flight. 

Under the spur of the moment’s excitement Jere¬ 
miah had likewise been acting with double the 
haste he could have mustered up for ordinary work. 
He stumbled blindly into all sorts of implements, 
which seemed to move from their accustomed places 
and deliberately get in his way, but he managed to 
locate a ladder and two of the old Prophet’s feed 
buckets in very brief time. 

Faith was also acting rapidly, and she was cer¬ 
tainly the coolest of them all. After wrapping 



THE TEMPEST 


255 


little Hope in the comforter, and instructing her to 
stay as quiet as a mouse upon the porch and watch 
what they were doing, she called to the tremendously 
excited David, who had, at her command, succeeded 
in struggling into his pantaloons, wrong way about, 
“Hurry, David, bring me the big wash tub; it is just 
within the back hallway.” 

The boy obeyed, fumbling about in the darkness 
until he had found it, and by the time he had 
dragged it to the well and Jeremiah had reached the 
same spot with his paraphernalia, Faith had one 
bucket brimming full of water already drawn up to 
the surface and poised ready to empty into the tub. 

“Hurry, hurry, Jeremiah!” Mark kept calling 
from the roof. “Hurry, or the fire will certain 
get entirely away from us.” Disregarding the many 
burns which were momentarily being inflicted upon 
his already badly bruised hands, he was tearing and 
kicking away the loosened shingles, all afire, and 
when the other man’s glistening bald head finally 
appeared above the eves, he very nearly lost his 
precarious footing upon the steep surface altogether, 
in reaching down to seize the bucket handed up to 
him. More skin was ripped from his finger tips 
as he dug them into the splintery shingles, but he 
saved himself, and an instant later the insignificant 
amount of precious water which still remained in the 
bucket went sizzling onto the flames. Jeremiah had 
spilled most of it as he stumbled nearsightedly from 
the well and climbed the ladder. The tongues of 



256 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


fire licked up the little which reached them so quickly 
that Mark began to think his task a hopeless one. 

But he stuck to it. So did the others; Faith fill¬ 
ing the wash tub for David to dip from and bear 
to Jeremiah, and so they continued until the shouts 
of several men running up the road heralded the 
arrival of help. 

Daniel Goodbody, and a number of other men 
and boys aroused by him en route, were at hand, 
bringing the only fire apparatus which Content 
knew—more ladders and more buckets. Friend 
Dyer Dexter was with them, and his natural posi¬ 
tion of authority in the village as its wealthiest man 
led him to take command. A complete line of 
water-passers was formed; another active youth 
scrambled up beside the exhausted Mark, and in 
a very few moments the last spark gave up the ghost 
with a protesting hiss, and all was dark. 

Mark slid slowly down the roof until his seeking 
feet found the top round of the ladder. He sud¬ 
denly felt very weak indeed; his face was scorched 
and one eyebrow had disappeared; his hands were 
badly burned and had begun to feel like two huge 
aching bruises. He was glad to feel other arms 
supporting him on either side, as he half-slid and 
half-climbed down the ladder to the firm ground. 

The faintest streak of pearl-tinted gray had begun 
to spread along the eastern horizon, but it was still 
blessedly dark beside the house. Faint and unsteady 
as he was he did not wish to be seen by his neigh- 




THE TEMPEST 257 

r- — - - --—---- 

bors. A hand, cool and moist, touched his, then 
another. Faith had somehow found him in the dark¬ 
ness. The pain which her grasp caused to the raw, 
torn flesh was lost in the joy of the contact as she 
bent close, whispering scarcely loud enough for him 
to hear the words, “Oh, Mark . . . my dear one! 
Thou hast saved all of our lives a second time. 
God bless thee! God bless thee!” 

Her lips touched his burning cheek for an instant, 
and he felt the salty smart of a tear upon it. 

Then he silently slipped away, without speaking, 
and was gone in the enshrouding darkness. 



CHAPTER XXII 


MORNING. 

One by one the seven black veils of night were 
lifted, most imperceptibly, and rosy Dawn stood 
revealed. But the lovely mystery of morning’s birth 
—so infinitely wonderful, yet so commonplace—held 
no deeper significance to the group of serious, half- 
clad, and perspiring Quakers in the yard of the 
Franklyn farmhouse than the fact that they could 
begin to see, make sure that the fire was fully out, 
and estimate the damage in dollars and cents. One 
or two departed but the rest remained, held by the 
instinct which causes groups of men to linger on the 
spot where any unusual event has taken place, and 
live it over again in words. 

“Who was the man that was already upon the 
burning roof when we arrived, Friend Matthew?” 
Daniel Goodbody suddenly inquired of the youth 
who had climbed up to assist Mark. “It must have 
been he who aroused me, but I did not quite recog¬ 
nize his voice.” 

Faith shrank back behind the buxom form of 
Mistress Goodbody, the constable’s spouse having 
just put in her appearance. The girl’s face 
blanched. Ever since the daylight had begun to 

258 


MORNING 


259 


strengthen she had been searching the little group 
with her anxious eyes, and knew that Mark had 
vanished from it—fled into the night. 

Matthew Wills gave a start, and responded, 
“Why, verily that was odd, although in mine ex¬ 
citement I had not given thought to the matter be¬ 
fore. It was Friend Mark Gray.” 

“Mark Gray?” repeated Goodbody, in astonish¬ 
ment, and Dyer Dexter echoed the words. The 
others regarded one another with looks of surprised 
inquiry. 

After an instant of silence the constable de¬ 
manded, “Art thou certain?” 

“Of a surety it was he, Friend Daniel. I gave 
his presence no thought, for he is always the first 
on hand when anything occurs in Content, and it 
never so much as entered my head that he was sup¬ 
posed to be in . . .” He stopped, for he had heard 
Faith’s smothered cry. The rest, very serious of 
face, at once turned towards her, and Dyer Dexter 
demanded, “Is this indeed true, Sister Faith? Was 
Mark Gray the one who ... ?” 

She stepped resolutely forward. “Yea. It was 
he. Once more Mark Gray hath given us his 
timely aid—perhaps saved our lives, for I did not 
know that the house had been struck by the light¬ 
ning and was on fire. There is none other in Con¬ 
tent, or elsewhere, like him.” With a wild sob 
her voice broke and she turned to bury her face on 
Mistress Goodbody’s ample bosom. The latter was 




260 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


thrilled. Here was real romance and food for 
future gossip. With exaggerated tenderness she 
led the girl to the house, picking up Hope and 
David on the way. 

Again there was silence for an instant. Then 
the constable said, solemnly, “He hath, indeed, been 
instrumental in saving them—God works in a mys¬ 
terious way His wonders to perform—and we 
must not permit ourselves to forget that fact in case 
he hath now ...” He stopped, and a deeply 
troubled note sounded in his voice as he continued, 
“I cannot think that he hath deliberately fled, al¬ 
though ... It would be a sad blow to me if he 
hath, for he was in my keeping. What shall I say 
to those from whom I receive mine authority?” 

“Nay, do not let thine heart be unduly troubled 
over that, Friend Daniel,” broke in another of the 
party. “Surely thou art in nowise to blame if thou 
locked him up properly. Prisoners escape even 
from the stone walls of city jails.” 

“Yea, I know. But it is incomprehensible to me 
how he could have broken out. The door was 
strong and the padlock secured, I am certain of 
that.” 

“He hath strength beyond the average,” put in 
a third. 

“Truly. But it was not enough unless . . . 
unless the Lord, to Whom all things are possible, 
gave him added power that he might act as His 
agent in the saving of the innocent. Doubtless 



MORNING 


261 


he beheld the lightning’s bolt strike this house. Oh, 

I cannot believe that it was for himself that he 

# 

made his escape, I cannot, Friends. Nay, Mark 
Gray’s flight was not premeditated. ,, 

Dyer Dexter’s grating voice answered, “Thou 
wert ever too soft of heart for thine office, Friend 
Daniel. How dost thou know that the man had not 
already freed himself, perhaps using some imple- 
plement which thou hadst forgotten and left within 
the jail-house, and later saw the fire? I would not 
trust him. He had done many things. . . .” 

“They were all the result of sudden great tempta¬ 
tions ; we know how he hath been afflicted, all 
his life. Nay, he did not do that.” 

“A youth—a Quaker youth—who would shoot 
a man . . .” 

“He did not! At least I firmly believe that he 
hath been falsely accused,” snapped Goodbody, and 
Friend Matthew answered, “Is it not then possible 
that he hath now gone to the camp of the city 
strangers to . . . to . . .” He likewise left his 
sentence incompleted but pregnant with inuendo. 

“I do not believe so. Of course it is barely pos¬ 
sible; but if he did, no further harm can come of it 
for Mr. Means is no longer there. His friend 
drove him back to the city, late last evening, upon 
the advice of Friend Paul Mayberry, our beloved 
physician, that he receive the treatment of his own 
doctor. Nevertheless, I must do my duty. If 
Mark Gray hath indeed fled we are scarce likely to 



262 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


apprehend him, hereabouts, yet I call upon thee, 
Friend Matthew, and thee and thee/’ he indicated 
two others of the young men, “to make search 
for him at yonder camp. I must myself hasten 
home and make ready to go at once to the county-- 
seat and report his escape to the authorities.” 

The designated trio set forth up the cart path 
across the meadow, while the rest fell in behind 
Daniel Goodbody as he started homewards, with 
hands clasped and eyes fixed on the roadway and 
full of pain. Upon reaching their several abodes 
the others left him, with a friendly word at parting, 
and he turned into his own yard, alone. At the 
end of the path stood the little toolhouse prison. 
Its door was swinging slightly back and forth, 
moved by the fresh morning breeze, and Good- 
body approached to close it, and likewise to discover 
how Mark could have made his escape. 

At the threshold he came to an abrupt stop and 
lifted his hands, uttering an exclamation of aston¬ 
ishment. For within the shed, on the edge of the 
narrow cot, sat his prisoner. His forearms were 
resting wearily upon his knees, with his big hands 
hanging limply before him; his chin was on his 
breast and his eyes bent to the floor, the very picture 
of fatigue and misery. Bursting in upon him, the 
constable cried, joyfully. “Mark! My boy, my 
boy—and I feared that thou hadst fled.” He 
would have seized both of the man’s hands but 
Mark hastily drew them back, supplicating him with 



MORNING 


263 


the words, “Nay, I pray thee.” Then he instinc¬ 
tively held them up, blackened and blistered by the 
fire, torn and bleeding. Friend Daniel gave an ex¬ 
clamation of mixed horror and pity. 

“Oh! Thou art fearfully, fearfully burned. 
Thy face, too! My poor lad, my poor lad, thou 
must be in mortal agony. Come. Come to the 
house with me forthwith, and I will hasten to sum¬ 
mon the physician to attend thee.” He laid his 
hand sympathetically on Mark’s bruised shoulder, 
whereat the latter winced and drew back again. For 
all his pain, the young man tried to laugh in sub¬ 
stantiation of his answer, “Nay, ’tis nothing. I 
am all right.” But the attempt was abortive and 
sounded more like a gasp. 

“Nothing, indeed! I commend thy courage more 
than thy wisdom. And come thou must. Thou 
hast done a noble thing this day, and I am ever¬ 
lastingly thy friend, Mark Gray, and cannot en¬ 
dure to see thee suffer needlessly, even for an in¬ 
stant.” Again with the best of intentions he 
placed his hand on an aching bruise. 

Mark had started to dissent, saying, “Nay. I can¬ 
not enter thy dwelling while . . .” but he stopped 
with a groan and swayed noticeably. He had 
never known what it was to feel faint, but now his 
head swam and the floor grew misty and tilted up. 
The combination of pain and sudden weakness from 
his exhausting labors were proving too much for 
him. 




264 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Water!” he whispered, weakly. “I do not 
need a physician, but if I may have a drink 
of . . He toppled over sidewise upon the bed. 

The icy cold well-water which Goodbody brought 
revived him quickly, and he continued to insist, 
more naturally, that he did not require a doctor’s 
aid. But although the constable understood his 
feelings and Quaker stubbornness, he was not to be 
turned from his purpose, and hurried out again. 
In passing the door he instinctively took hold of it 
for the purpose of closing it, but checked himself 
and threw it wide open, so that the morning sun¬ 
light streamed brightly in. 

The look of silent gratitude in Mark’s counte¬ 
nance repaid him. 

It was a strange Sabbath morning for the vil¬ 
lage of Content. 

How materially the events of the night had 
stirred it from its long-established habits was made 
evident by the fact that in the majority of cases 
the meeting-goers departed from their accustomed 
routes to the place of worship and somehow man¬ 
aged to pass the little lock-up, nearly a mile beyond 
the village. There small groups of them came to a 
pause regarding the door which at Mark’s request 
had once more been closed, though not fastened, 
and talked together in low, excited tones. 

Rumor had taken wing again, and there were few 
who had not heard, before breakfast, of what the 




MORNING 


265 


smith’s son had done during the darkness and the 
storm. Nor that even the officer of the law him¬ 
self, Friend Daniel Goodbody, had openly de¬ 
clared that he believed the lad the victim of a ma¬ 
liciously false and unthinkably wicked charge. The 
revulsion of feeling was almost complete; the pen¬ 
dulum of popular opinion had swung far back 
again. Human nature cannot be altogether made 
over. Emotions, creditable and discreditable, sway 
the hearts of the most formal of us, and must find 
their outward expression in some way. Mark 
Gray was again a hero in the community, the more 
so because he was wounded and in durance. Even 
the narrowest-minded among them, who had always 
looked askance at the youth and deplored his 
worldly tendencies—even Dyer Dexter himself— 
dared not verbally oppose" the sweep of sentiment in 
his favor. 

Many of his neighbors would gladly have called 
upon him to offer their consolation, and express 
their faith in him and his cause. But Daniel Good- 
body used his authority sternly to forbid it. He 
knew how Mark felt on that subject, and declared 
that his condition was such that only the members 
of his immediate family—who had come even be¬ 
fore the physician—might see him. It was a false¬ 
hood, perhaps, but surely the whitest of white lies, 
and he had suddenly come to a complete under¬ 
standing of the young man’s mind and he knew that 
his pride would bitterly rebel against even the kind- 




266 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


liest intentioned visitation while he was suffering 
and under the cloud. 

Then came the old carry-all from the Franklyn 
farm, with Jeremiah—the yellow straw hat jammed 
tightly down upon his wigless head—Hope, David 
and Faith. It stopped at the gate. The girl de¬ 
scended and passed, with bent head, between the 
whispering little groups. She reached the door 
where the constable stood like a very mild-faced 
guardian dragon with sparse white hair and steel- 
rimmed spectacles. 

The eager listeners heard him say, “1 bid thee 
good morning, Sister Faith. Thou wilt surely be 
welcome here.” They saw him open the door, and 
close it behind her. 

Then there were indeed whisperings, and many 
who had been most anxious to do the same spoke 
with unmitigated criticism of the unseemliness of 
Sister Faith Franklyn, a young and unmarried 
woman, calling upon Mark, and talked on until 
Daniel Goodbody approached them with poorly 
concealed indignation and bade them hold their 
peace. 

One had the courage to remind him that the girl 
was not one of his intimate family, and he answered, 
“There are ties stronger in the sight of God even 
than those of blood—as thou shouldst know, Sister 
Mary. The man hath twice all but laid down his 
life for her. Go thou and read the thirteenth 
verse of the fifteenth chapter of John, and see 




MORNING 


267 


whether or not thou then thinkest that he hath the 
right to receive ministrations from her hands and 
comfort from her mouth which hath never uttered 
evil of him . . . as many have.” 

Somewhat chastened, the lingerers moved away 
towards the Meeting House, with a new and choice 
morsel of gossip to roll upon their tongues. So 
Faith Franklyn was actually and openly counte¬ 
nancing the suit of Mark Gray! 

And when, a full half hour late, the girl her¬ 
self entered the place of meeting and walked to her 
accustomed seat with eyes modestly lowered but 
with a brave look upon her face and an illumina¬ 
tion shining out of it from the light which glowed 
within her heart, few there were who did not for¬ 
get their silent prayers long enough to thrill at the 
thought of the romance which centered in her. 



CHAPTER XXIII 


BEFORE THE STORM 

As Mark sat rather disconsolately within his 
flimsy cell on the following morning, there came 
a rap on the unlocked door. 

“Come in,” he called, and smiled with a tinge 
of bitterness over the absurdity of his granting the 
permission. What, indeed, had he to say about 
the incomings of any one—he, a prisoner, even 
though his door were not barred? His jailer en¬ 
tered, and the grave greeting which he gave Mark 
soothed his ruffled feelings like a benediction. 
Then, with a dramatic gesture foreign to one of his 
training, Daniel Goodbody threw wide open the door 
which he was still holding, and announced, “See, it 
is a symbol. Thou art wholly free to depart.” 

The young man started up, an eager look upon his 
scarred face. “Free?” he gasped out. “Dost 
thou mean that mine accuser hath . . . ?” 

Goodbody showed his distress both in look and 
voice, over having thus aroused false hopes in the 
prisoner, as he responded, “Nay. Alas, that is 
not what I meant, my boy. Unless he suffers a 
change of heart thy case must still be tried at the 

next term of the County Court which cometh in on 

268 


BEFORE THE STORM 


269 


Monday week, and I doubt not but that thou 
wouldst rather have it thus, so that thy vindication 
mayst be complete. I would better have said, 
‘thou art free to leave this place and return to the 
bosom of thine own family at home, upon giving 
me thy word—which I do not need nor yet demand 
—that thou wilt not leave Content, until . . .’ ” 
He stopped. 

Mark regarded him with slowly dawning compre¬ 
hension. 

“Thou meanest that some one hath furnished 
bail for me?” 

The constable nodded his assent. 

“But . . . but who? Father wouldst gladly do 
it, I know, but he hath not sufficient money without 
placing a mortgage upon our home, which I begged 
that he would not do.” 

Something in the other’s noticeable hesitancy 
about answering gave Mark a hint of the truth. 
“Not Sister Faith Franklyn!” he said. “Of course 
not. Why, she hath nothing—less even than my 
father. Friend Daniel it ... it was not she!” 

The constable smiled and nodded again. 

“But . . . but it is impossible. Even though the 
amount of the bail were not large—and I have no 
idea of what is customary—where would she have 
got the money ? And I know that her farm beareth 
mortgages to the last cent of its value. She . . . 
Dyer Dexter! Tell me, Friend Daniel, she did not 
borrow from him; she could not have done that?” 




270 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“I cannot tell thee. I have been strictly enjoined 
to say nothing—I have said too much, already. 
Is it not enough that thou hast friends so 
true and trusting, and that thou art free from 
prison ?” 

“Nay, it is not enough. Or rather it is too much! 
I cannot, I will not accept my liberty at such a price. 
Dost thou not understand what it means, Friend 
Daniel? I will not have her lay herself under a 
debt to him, for my sake, no matter how small the 
obligation. I will not!’' Mark was now pacing 
back and forth and pressing his hands together, in 
his mental agony utterly unconscious of the physical 
pain which the act caused him. 

“Come, come lad. Control thyself. This is fool¬ 
ish on thy part. I do not know just what ar¬ 
rangements have been made, but if perchance 
Friend Dyer hath entered into them it is only 
meet and right that he should have done so. He 
is thy neighbor, and well-to-do. Moreover he is a 
just man, albeit somewhat hard at times, and our 
faith layeth an obligation upon each of us to render 
assistance, in as far as we can, to our neighbors. 
He is to be commended, I think.” 

“And dost thou think that he hath done this for 
me?” Mark gave a short rasping laugh. “Nay, I 
can very well understand it all. Faith hath humbled 
herself for my sake, and he hath given her the 
wherewithal to purchase my relief that he might 
appear generous, magnanimous in her eyes and 



BEFORE THE STORM 


271 


likewise gain a hold upon her. I will not have it. 
1 shall remain here,” he ended, setting his lips in a 
stubborn line.” 

“Thou canst not, Mark. Thy release is an ac¬ 
complished fact. And I think that thou art now 
behaving like a boy and wholly without the spirit 
of Christianity. Perhaps I am not entirely lack¬ 
ing in comprehension of thy feelings, but take the 
advice of one old enough to have been thy father, 
and be more charitable, accepting this friendly act 
in the spirit of friendliness. Perchance thou art 
doing a grave injustice to Friend Dyer, and at 
least thou shouldst rejoice that Sister Faith hath 
shown herself so truly named. Her love for thee, 
and thine for her, is now no secret. Let this be a 
proof of both, for a gracious, thankful acceptance 
of an offering of affection is on a parity with the 
gift itself.” 

“It is infinitely more difficult,” groaned Mark, 
as he dropped back upon the bed and covered his 
face with his hands. 

“Therefore the more commendable. Truly ad¬ 
versity hath its uses; it is a touchstone by which 
the gold of unalloyed friendship is tested. Come 
now. This is a chance for thee to prove thyself 
wholly the man. Thy father and Sister Patience 
are awaiting thee, at home.” 

During the six days which followed, Mark saw 
Faith just once, and then the width of the Meeting 



272 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


House separated them as they sat in their usual 
places—one on the left hand and the other on the 
right, at the Fifth Day meeting. But he had written 
to her—the first letter which he had ever indited to 
any girl or she received from any man. It had 
been a very brief and simple epistle of gratitude 
and loyalty, ending with the statement that she 
would understand why he did not come to her again 
until the charge against him should be removed. 
He did not mention Dyer Dexter, or the part 
which, he had correctly concluded, the village’s 
Croesus had played in his deliverance. 

The girl understood, and kept the letter close to 
her heart. For her the passing days were filled 
with deep anxiety, more on his account than her 
own, even though her whole life was in upheaval 
and threatening to fall about her in ruins. For 
Mark’s sake she had borrowed from her neighbor, 
and although the loan was but a temporary one, and 
Dexter had been well content to ask for no security, 
it placed her in his debt. Appalling thought to 
take to her sleepless bed along with all her other 
worries! And although she had escaped the Scylla 
of Means’ daily visits she was caught in the whirl¬ 
pool of Charybdis, for Friend Dyer made it his 
duty to call upon her each evening during the hour 
of family prayer. He never attempted to make 
even Quaker love to her—he was far too wise for 
that—but his mere presence seemed to hold the 
threat of an invisible whip over her spirit, and his 




BEFORE THE STORM 


273 


awkward attempts at sympathy were maddening to 
her. 

Faith purposely kept away from the village, 
making Jeremiah her substitute in disposing of their 
garden truck and purchasing the things which their 
simple wants required. And she frequently sent 
David along with the farm hand, and never without 
some little verbal message, apparently of the boy’s 
own making, between the spoken lines of which 
Mark could read and learn anew the breadth and 
depth of her love and confidence. Sometimes, too, 
David brought some simple gift—a few freshly cut 
roses, and cookies warm from the dutch oven, or 
other homely offerings which told the same story 
and meant the world to Mark. 

The boy became a tangible tie between him and 
Faith, and Mark likewise enjoyed his almost daily 
visits to the smithy because of his own bright and 
cheerful company. All children were dear to him, 
and he found particular relief from his somber 
thoughts in talking to the lad whose friendship 
was as natural as a dog’s might have been, and 
who worshiped him frankly and openly. 

Mark had ever been something of a hero in 
David’s eyes, and now he was further invested with 
the glamor of a romantic adventure as thrilling as 
any of Jeremiah’s stories, and real. “Gosh,” thought 
the boy—he would still think it, although he had 
almost conquered his habit of speaking the word 
aloud—“He’s a hero, almost everybody saith so. 



274 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


And I know him!” His interest was shared be¬ 
tween the man and his work. He had abandoned 
all hope of being a wrestler and was now wavering 
between the desire to follow the trade of blacksmith 
and that of motor mechanic, and he lent his sturdy 
little strength at the bellows, chattering continually. 
Boylike he asked innumerable questions and oc¬ 
casionally these touched on matters which Mark 
wished to forget, as the time when he suddenly de¬ 
manded, “It’s lots of fun to shoot off a pistol, 
isn’t it, Mark?” 

“Yea,” responded the man, startled into answer¬ 
ing without consideration. 

“I just bet that it is! I love to hear ’em go bang, 

% 

but I don’t think that I should like to shoot a man, 
although I might shoot an Indian, to make him 
good.” 

“ ‘To make him good?’ ” repeated Mark, in be¬ 
wilderment. 

“Yea.” Seriously. “Jeremiah saith that the 
only good Indians are dead ones. But I don’t just 
see how that can be, for if they’re bad when they’re 
alive they won’t go to heaven when they’re dead, 
and the Bible saith that . . . that the other place— 
you know—is for the wicked.” 

“I think that Friend Jeremiah hath been telling 
thee fairy stories again, Davie,” smiled Mark. 

“Thou really and truly didst not shoot the city 
man, didst thou?” 

“Nay. I really and truly did not.” 




BEFORE THE STORM 


275 


The boy appeared somewhat disappointed, but 
he slipped his smutty little hand into the man’s, as 
he answered, “ ’Course not. Although Friend 
Dyer Dexter saith that he is not so sure. I heard 
him tell sister Faith so, last evening. Ouch, Mark, 
thou art hurting my fingers.” 

There was another visitor either at the smithy or 
the Gray homestead, almost daily, whose calls 
cheered the young man greatly. It was Jack Hib¬ 
bard, who had returned to his labors after driving 
Means to his apartment in Philadelphia and there 
surrendering him into the charge of his physician 
and a trained nurse. Before leaving him, Hibbard 
had very frankly stated that he utterly disbelieved 
his story and hoped that he would come to his 
senses and retract it before the case came to trial. 
They had parted enemies. Hibbard brought back 
with him one of his regular assistants and was at 
last thoroughly enjoying his semi-outing, especially 
the time which he spent with Mark and the smith, 
when he came into the village for mail and provi¬ 
sions in the early evenings. The young Quaker, 
for his part, was deeply touched by his friend¬ 
ship. 

Others, too, made a point of speaking to him— 
little sentences of friendly encouragement which 
daily forged new links in the new tie which was 
binding him closer to h : s neighbors. Their re¬ 
marks were often awkwardly expressed and halt¬ 
ing, but the more sincere on that account. 



276 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


So, without further incident, passed the week 
and most of another “First Day.” The morrow 
with its final test was almost at hand! 

The Sabbath afternoon was again unseasonably 
hot and sultry. Towards evening a faint breeze 
sprang up from the east, and John Gray went so far 
contrary to the established custom of the village 
as to open partially the blinds of the front window 
of the small living-room to obtain the benefit of it. 
Sister Patience and Mark were seated with him, 
and he was reading aloud comforting and strength¬ 
ening passages from the Psalms, selected especially 
for the youth’s sake, as Mark well knew. 

It was rather dim and very peaceful in the room, 
and Mark had fallen into a reverie which, under 
the soothing influence of the smith’s deep, droning 
voice, had approached the verge of drowsiness 
filled with pleasant thoughts. He had deliberately 
put from his mind worry over the morrow, and, 
having swept his heart clean, obeyed the injunction 
contained in the parable and filled its place with 
dreams of Faith. He had seen her that morning in 
the Meeting House. She had been unnaturally pale 
and her face looked almost thin. Yet oh, how 
sweet she had appeared—especially when she had 
once lifted her bowed head for an instant, caught 
his eye fixed almost devouringly upon her, and 
smiled. It was a faint smile, scarcely enough to 
cause the purple shadow of a dimple to appear in 
her cheek, but it held a world of love. If she were 



BEFORE THE STORM 


277 


only with him now; if he could only hold her close 
and kiss back some rosy color into her cheeks! 

Suddenly Mark felt himself start, without know¬ 
ing why. A quiver ran through his whole body 
and his nerves twitched, inexplicably, in the old way. 
What was it ? Certainly nothing had happened, 
and his thoughts had not strayed from their pleasant 
path. His father was still reading, and the only 
other sound was the scarcely audible purr of a 
distant automobile. That was it! His hearing, 
sensitized to the noises of a machine, had caught a 
slight unevenness in the sound, a faint knocking. 
He had heard its like before—from the motor of the 
big car owned by Robert Means. Of course this 
one might not be his, but . . . Mark remained 
leaning forward, tensely. 

Something caused both the smith and Sister 
Patience to look up at him, and what they saw 
brought an expression of trouble into both their 
faces. 

The on-coming car flashed by the window, leav¬ 
ing a cloud of dust in its wake. Mark sank back 
in his chair, with his heart, which had been in his 
throat, sinking like lead. His strange premoni¬ 
tion had been right. The machine was Means’ 
and the man himself was driving it—back to Con¬ 
tent. His return could have but one significance. 
He had recovered from his injury and was returning 
to carry through his false charge on the morrow. 
All hope that he might repent of his evil straightway 



278 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


vanished from Mark’s heart. It was his word 
against that of his accuser, and all the circumstantial 
evidence was black against him. 

The happy thoughts departed, not again to return 
to comfort him. Bitter brooding filled their empty 
places. Well, after all, knowledge of the worst 
was better than uncertainty. Now he could steel 
his soul anew for the trial. Mark smiled, grimly. 



CHAPTER XXIV 


THE BREAKING-POINT 

Robert Means had, indeed, returned to press his 
charge against the man who had incurred the bitter¬ 
est enmity which he had ever felt towards any one. 
His final determination to go back to Content had 
not been reached until that very noon, and several 
considerations entered into it; anger, vanity, and 
something else quite different from either of these. 

His wound had been almost insignificant, less 
even than Hibbard had believed—merely a gouge 
across the flesh of his upper leg. But it had con¬ 
fined him, first to his bed and then to his rooms, for 
six days—days which had been hell for him, and 
which he had made a hell for his man, and his 
nurse who had packed up and left on the third of 
them. 

He was not used to bearing physical pain, but it 
was, perhaps, the least of his worries. The sur¬ 
geon had strictly forbidden him the use of alcoholic 
stimulants and, at the start, he had been frightened 
into compliance with the direction by the doctors 
warning of what might follow if he failed to obey. 
He had not made known his return to the city to 
any of his boon companions, and had been utterly 

279 


280 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


alone and indescribably lonely. Ennui had always 
been the ban of Means’ butterfly existence, and as the 
hours and days dawdled by, he had felt that it would 
drive him mad, stark mad. 

His mental discomfiture had been bred of this 
loneliness and another thought—that he had made 
a complete fool of himself and really deserved what 
he had got. There are few men who can face 
that sobering realization squarely, and accept it phil¬ 
osophically. Means certainly was not of the tem¬ 
perament to do so. It maddened him. He had 
let himself in for a scrape from which there was 
only one way out, and that a most unpleasant one. 
Of course he could not confess his lie; that was out 
of the question for one of his nature. He had got 
to go through with the thing and appear in court 
against that Quaker fellow, and a most distasteful 
experience it was going to be. He had already 
been notified to attend the trial on the following 
Monday, had conferred with his attorney, of course 
telling him the same story he had told Hibbard, and 
received the assurance that he was sure to win. It 
was not exactly a comforting assurance, but at 
least it held a grain of satisfaction. He would be 
getting even with a vengeance for the blow which 
had been dealt him. 

Yes, he had got to go through with it! If he 
welched now, Hibbard would spread the story 
abroad, discrediting him and making him the laugh¬ 
ing-stock, or worse, of all his acquaintances. Be- 



THE BREAKING-POINT 281 


sides, if he did not, that damned Quaker cub might 
sue him for false arrest and he would be up against 
the same thing, eventually. No, he had got to go on. 
Time and again Means had gone through this same 
mental process, writhing inwardly, and he had always 
reached the same conclusion. 

There had been another consideration which en¬ 
tered into his decision, although he had been well 
aware that reason played no part in it. But then, 
reason seldom did weigh against his impulses. 

He doubly wanted to clear his own skirts and put 
Mark Gray out of the way, if only because of Faith 
Franklyn. It amazed and angered him to discover 
what a hold the simple Quaker girl had taken upon 
his imagination. Instead of forgetting her, he knew 
that the desire to see her again was growing daily, 
out of all proportion with anything which he had 
ever felt before. It had become almost an obses¬ 
sion at length. Here was something which he ap¬ 
parently could not have. Certainly his wealth would 
not buy it, and he felt the sting of his complete fail¬ 
ure to arouse her by means of his own fascination 
and studied attentions. He wanted her, fiendishly. 
Of course the desire might pass quickly with pos¬ 
session, but that consideration had no bearing upon 
his thoughts. 

Repeatedly he tried to put the memory of her out 
of his mind. He told himself that he was an idiot. 
Why should she mean anything to him, anyway? 
He told himself that the whole affair was prepos- 



282 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


terous—the idea of him, Robert Means who had 
played with women in almost every quarter of the 
globe, in a week’s time losing his head over an ugly 
costumed, simple-minded, “thee and thou” Quaker 
girl. Preposterous! Of course it was. He re¬ 
minded himself that, however much he might have 
tasted of forbidden fruit and been guilty of treading 
the rose-strewn paths of dalliance, he had never 
quite forgotten that he was a gentleman; never 
quite become a cad. A hundred kindred things he 
had told himself over and over during the lonely 
hours of his shut-in days, and the lonelier hours of 
the long, sleepless nights. Always his thoughts re¬ 
turned intensified to the girl herself, so bewitchingly 
sweet, so strongly desired because so seemingly un¬ 
attainable. 

Means was losing his grip upon himself, and, 
worst of all, he knew it. His nerves were as taut- 
strung, quivering wires, and a flock of past sins had 
returned to perch upon them, like blackbirds, weigh¬ 
ing them down to the breaking point. 

It had been bad enough while fear of consequence 
kept him sober. It was infinitely worst when he 
had thrown caution to the winds and began to drink. 
His dreams had been filled with her face; always 
fair, sometimes repelling him with a look of scarcely 
concealed contempt, but more often utterly indiffer¬ 
ent. It aroused the devil within him. Better dis¬ 
like than indifference. 

Periods of actual remorse would follow, bring- 



THE BREAKING-POINT 283 


ing with them saner thoughts, and again brief mo¬ 
ments of wondering whether he might not actually 
win her love. Having nothing else to do but think, 
he would set himself seriously to planning out im¬ 
aginary moves in a game, the goal of which was the 
Quaker girl’s heart. And as often he would end 
with a cynical laugh at his own idiocy. He was 
a fool. What was she to him, anyway? Always the 
answer came—a woman, beautiful, therefore to be 
desired and conquered. So, over and over until the 
obsession was complete and he could think and 
dream of nothing else. By the end of the week 
he had made up his mind that he was going to see 
Faith Franklyn again, whatever happened. 

The climax came Sunday morning. Means had 
spent a wretched night, his nerves were going com¬ 
pletely to pieces. Whiskey, taken straight, and 
morphine had wrecked his last bit of self-control; 
his new obsession was completely master of him. 
The border-line of temporary insanity had been 
reached. And again he knew it, and cursed the 
drawn and haggard man whose unnatural eyes and 
twitching lips were reflected back to him from his 
mirror. 

He would drive, alone, back to Content; his wound 
had healed so that he could get about with merely a 
slight limp. Come what might, he would see Faith 
Franklyn. Perhaps that would be sufficient. The 
sight of the flesh and blood girl who—reason still 
insisted, although in vain—was nothing but an un- 



284 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


interesting country chit, might banish from his dis¬ 
eased imaginings the image which had come to as¬ 
sume in them almost divinity, tempting enough to 
drive a man mad. 

Besides, he had got to be in the next town on the 
following morning for the trial of Mark Gray, and, 
having seen her, could drive thither unless Hibbard 
would permit him to spend the night in the camp. 
Means meant to visit it, in any event, for some of 
his belongings were still there. If the other man 
were still hostile, well and good. He could be just 
as ugly; in fact he took unpleasant satisfaction in 
forming invectives to hurl at his former friend, and 
even hoped that they might come to blows. 

The fifty mile drive in the open air cooled Means 
down a little. He drove at a furious pace, and the 
physical exercise furnished a temporary relief for 
his nerves so that he was in fairly good shape, for 
the time being, when he reached his destination. 
The tent on the hillside and then the Franklyn farm¬ 
house appeared in view. With the sight of it came 
again the quickening thrill, and all the former 
thoughts concerning her crowded back into his brain. 
He was bewitched. 

The driveway gate had been left open. Means 
swung the big car sharply about and entered the 
farmhouse yard. Directly before him, and alone, 
was the girl whom he sought. 

It had been so uncomfortably hot within the 
house that Faith had finally yielded to the insistent 




THE BREAKING-POINT 285 


t 

begging of the children that they be permitted to 
take a quiet walk in the meadows, and she had like' 
wise come out, to sit upon the bench beneath the 
great elm, ostensibly to read her Bible and commune 
with the Spirit. At that instant her clasped hands 
rested on a closed Book, but her thoughts might 
have been called mundane except that pure love is 
in itself akin to religion. Her mind was so far de¬ 
tached from the present that, although she turned 
her startled eyes upon the intruder, they still held 
an expression of such dreamy affection that Means’ 
blood surged hotly through his brain. It made no 
difference that thoughts of another, as he well knew, 
had called the look into existence. 

Faith sprang to her feet so suddenly that the 
Bible fell from her lap to the grass. Her cheeks 
flushed deeply and then blanched, while the expres¬ 
sion of horror and contempt, which he had seen 
in her phantasmal face, crept over her countenance. 
She started to run to the house, but was too late. 
Means had already brought the machine to a stop 
and stepped out of it, directly in front of her. She 
stiffened and faced him, courageously. 

Means made up his mind as to the part which he 
should act, on the instant. He took a step forward, 
limping a good deal more than was necessary. 
There was no need for him to simulate a haggard 
expression, for it was already present and very 
real. Unconsciously the girl’s eyes turned upon his 
injured leg, with a momentary look of pain and sym- 



286 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


pathy. It quickly gave place to one of cold hostil¬ 
ity, however, and his heart burned. 

The man began to speak at once, using a low, 
troubled, and appealing tone. “Please do not look 
at me like that, Miss Franklyn. I had to come back 
here—and it was not altogether because of the trial, 
which is set down for to-morrow. Please believe 
me when I tell you that I would give a year of my 
life to have that day stricken from the calendar. 
Pm terribly sorry—I’m afraid that I cannot begin 
to make you understand how sorry I am for . . . 
for everything.” 

Faith raised her hand as though to check him, 
but he merely stepped closer and continued, hur¬ 
riedly, “It’s true. It would be true even if I had 
never known you, but the brief moments of friendly 
companionship which I was able to enjoy with you, 
a week ago, meant everything to me. You can’t 
know how much they meant, or how much I covet 
your friendship. Why, it’s more to me than any¬ 
thing in the world!” 

Means was a natural actor, but now he was not 
merely acting; he was living his part and was con¬ 
vinced that what he said was true. Perhaps it 
really was. Men are strange creatures at the best 
—or worst. In any event, a note of real sin¬ 
cerity sounded through his voice, and it made the 
girl pause. 

“I . . .” she began, and stopped, not knowing 
what to say. 



THE BREAKING-POINT 287 


“Yes. I understand something of what your 
feelings must be towards me. Probably I should 
not blame you for believing the young man’s ac¬ 
count of what happened a week ago, rather than 
mine. But I would rather not talk about that until 
I have to, to-morrow. I am willing to say this much 
—to you—however. I was in a very considerable 
degree to blame for the . . . the accident. I wasn’t 
wholly myself; I confess it, to my shame and sorrow, 
and I have ceased to be vindictive towards him. 
Can a man say more than that?” 

Faith hesitated. The man sounded sincere and 
contrite. If he were, it was clearly her duty to 
forgive, and here might be her opportunity to help 
Mark. Her face lost its intense look of dislike. 

“Yea. Man can do more than that—more is 
commanded him.” 

“What? I would do almost anything . . . for 
your sake.” Means pressed forward, speaking 
eagerly. 

“Nay, not for mine. Thy speech hath a hint of 
charitableness, and charity is the greatest of vir¬ 
tues. But it must be founded on truth, not self- 
interest. I may have wronged thee in my heart by 
thinking too harshly of thee, but Mark Gray doth 
not desire forgiveness, but justice, I have heard his 
account of the matter as well as thine—and his is 
true. I know it, and so dost thou.” As Faith spoke 
Mark’s name a blush mantled her cheeks, but she 
did not lower her eyes, which were now large, dark 



288 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


and almost flaming. Her excitement intensified her 
loveliness, and it was all that Means could do to 
restrain himself from catching her in his arms. His 
blood was on fire; his brain whirled. He was los¬ 
ing all control of himself once more. 

“Wait. Wait, Miss Franklyn . . . Faith. 
You’ve got to hear me now. I don't know what 
story he has told; I scarcely know what I said, or 
did, myself. I ... I wasn’t myself that night. 
I’m willing to admit that I provoked the quarrel with 
him, and that the shooting was wholly accidental. 
I’ll promise to say as much in court, to-morrow, and 
retract my charge if you will only . . .” 

“What have I to do with it?’' she interrupted 
to demand, sternly. “The truth shouldst not be an 
object of barter—and thou hast not yet told the 
truth. If thou hast a conscience . . 

“I know.’’ Means was fast slipping. “I am no 
saint, but my conscience is not wholly dead. There 
is a spark of it left which you could fan back to life 
with your friendship. Please give it to me! Please 
help me, now!” He reached out his hand to her. 
Startled anew, she tried to avoid him and run to 
the house. But Means caught her wrist and drew 
her sharply to him. The touch of his fingers on 
her flesh had swept away his last atom of control. 
This was what he had come back for. 

Faith was white and her lips set. She was very 
frightened, but she would not show the fact. 
She was tugging hard to release her hand from his 



THE BREAKING-POINT 289 


grasp when David’s eager voice again caused a 
blessed interruption. He dashed around the cor¬ 
ner of the barn, followed at a few yards by little 
Hope. The lad was waving something wildly above 
his head. Man and woman were equally startled 
when he drew closer, somewhat more slowly after 
he had caught sight of the intruder, and they saw 
that, he held in his chubby hand a glistening revol¬ 
ver, the replica of the one which Mark had pos¬ 
sessed. 

Instantly the same thought flashed into the mind 
of each. The boy had somehow fallen upon the 
missing weapon, which Means had declared he had 
sought at the' gravel pit and failed to find, and Mark 
had said his opponent had fired at him in the mea¬ 
dow. The man dropped Faith’s arm, and took an 
impulsive step towards David, holding out his hand. 
David ignored it and addressed his sister with boy¬ 
ish excitement “Look, Faith! See what I have 
found. It is verily the other pistol, just like the one 
I found in Mark’s pocket. Can I keep it, sister 
Faith? Findings is . . 

“Just where didst thou find it, Davie? Tell me.” 
Her voice was trembling and as full of excitement 
as his own. 

“In the further pasture, a little way beyond the 
gravel pit. I was looking for the nest of a field 
swallow which I saw start up from a clump of grass, 
and my foot kicked right against it. Why dost 
thou look so funny. May I . . 




290 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Give it to me, David,” she cried, reaching out 
her hand. With crestfallen countenance the lad sur¬ 
rendered his treasure to her, and she hastily slipped 
it into the front of her dress beneath the white ker¬ 
chief. Faith was trembling all over, and the touch 
of the steel against the flesh was terrifying to her, 
but her courage held firm. 

The sight of the revolver and David’s disclosure 
had steadied Means, temporarily. With an assump¬ 
tion of innocence he said, “I wonder if you had not 
better let me have that weapon, Miss Franklyn. It 
is dangerous.” 

“Nay. I shall keep it,” 

“Indeed!” Again passion was as suddenly shaking 
him, making him speak hastily and without fore¬ 
thought. “Suppose that I should tell you that I 
believe that it is my property?” 

“I should answer that I am sure that it is.” 

The man gave a harsh laugh. “I thought that 
Quakers still kept the Ten Commandments. One 
of them runs, ‘thou shalt not steal,’ if I remem¬ 
ber.” 

Faith’s eyes flashed ominously. “I am not steal¬ 
ing. If thou canst identify this weapon as thy prop¬ 
erty, it shall be returned to thee—in court, to-mor¬ 
row. I think that the judge who tries thy case 
will be glad to see it, and hear just where it was 
found—not in the gravel pit, where thou saidst it 
fell from thy hand when Mark Gray knocked thee 
down ...” oh, the biting sarcasm with which 



THE BREAKING-POINT 291 


she spoke those words . . . “but rather in the 
field, where he saith that thou attacked him mur¬ 
derously. Come David.” 

Seizing the boy’s hand she turned towards the 
house. 

“Not so fast, my lady. I think that I will have 
that revolver now.” Means was at her side, with 
his hand on her wrist again. Every other idea was 
banished by the one thought, “I must get possession 
of that revolver!” 

“Thou shalt not have it!” 

Means seized the girl roughly and started to tear 
at her dress front where the weapon was concealed. 
Faith cried out, and the next second a diminutive 
eight-year old fury—David—had butted his head 
viciously into the pit of the man’s stomach and was 
kicking at his shins with all the strength of a sturdy 
leg. 

Means uttered a cry of pain. He released Faith 
and swung on the lad, knocking him to the ground 
with a sweeping blow of his arm. Then he turned 
back—to find himself looking straight into the muz¬ 
zle of his own revolver. It was wavering, but aimed 
at his heart. Behind it he saw a new face; not the 
calm countenance of the Quaker girl, Faith Frank- 
lyn, but of primitive womanhood, at bay and deadly. 
Her cheeks were colorless and, by contrast, the two 
eyes which actually glared forth from beneath her 
disarranged hair seemed black as coals just kin¬ 
dling. Her dress and kerchief were tom partly 




292 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


away from the base of her neck, revealing a touch 
of her swiftly rising and falling bosom. 

Means laughed, madly. 

David got to his feet again, shrilling out, “Shoot 
him! Kill him, sister Faith! Pull with thy finger 
of the little stick underneath.” The boy sprang 
forward, beside himself with rage. But, before he 
could reach Faith, Means had turned and dodged 
behind his automobile. He was not afraid that 
the girl would deliberately fire upon him, but only 
God knew what would happen if the boy should 
reach the weapon and either pull the trigger himself, 
or cause her to do so. 

The incident was ended. So weak that she could 
scarcely walk, Faith hurried the children—both of 
whom were now crying, David from anger and 
Hope from terror—into the house and closed and 
locked the door. Means climbed into his machine 
and drove crazily up the cart path and across the 
field towards the tent. 



CHAPTER XXV 


THE GREATER VICTORY 

In the small front room of the Gray homestead 
the smith had continued his quiet reading after that 
brief and startling interlude. But the look of ha¬ 
tred which had passed over Mark’s face remained in 
his mind, and he suddenly turned from the Psalms 
to the New Testament and began to read from the 
Sermon on the Mount. 

“ ‘Ye have heard that it was said by them of old 
time, Thou shalt not kill: and whosoever shall kill shall 
be in danger of the judgment: But I say unto you, 
That whosoever is angry with his brother without a 
cause, shall be in danger of the judgment: and whoso¬ 
ever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of 
the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall 
be in danger of hell fire. Therefore, if thou bring thy 
gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother 
hath ought against thee, leave there thy gift before the 
altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, 
and then come and offer thy gift. Agree with thine 
adversary quickly, whilst thou art in the way with him. 
lest at any time the adversary deliver thee to the judge, 
and the judge deliver thee to the officer, and thou be 
cast into prison.’ ” 


293 


294 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


He stopped and laid the book to one side. 

“How can I agree with mine adversary, if he wilt 
not?” demanded Mark. 

“Not facts but purposes are what count in God’s 
sight, my son. Christ again spoke in a parable, for 
the better understanding of the multitude. The 
judge and the officer were but symbols. He was 
more direct in the first of the verses which I have 
read thee from the Apostle Matthew. ‘First be 
reconciled with thy brother, and then come and offer 
thy gift/ All men are our brothers.” 

“I know.” Mark was still argumentative. “But 
He also said, ‘Whosoever is angry with his brother 
without just cause / Have I not cause?” 

“Yea. All the greater credit shall be thine if, 
having cause, thou forgivest him. Hast thou for¬ 
gotten the words spoken upon the cross—the text 
upon which our faith is founded—‘Father, forgive 
them, for they know not what they do?’ ” 

“A Christ could say it. But a man . . . Nay, 
my spirit is still contentious—it still kicks against 
the pricks of conscience. But thou are right, father. 
I may win over him in the law court, but I have still 
greater need to win the greater victory over myself. 
If thou dost not mind, I think that I shall go and 
walk quietly by myself for a little while.” 

“Yea. Go, my son.” 

A half-hour had passed. Robert Means sat alone 
within the tent on the hillside, upon the cot bed which 



THE GREATER VICTORY 295 


had once been his, but which was now covered 
with the scattered possessions of a stranger. He 
had considered himself fortunate to find the place 
empty—the assistant had returned to Philadelphia 
for the week-end and Hibbard had likewise returned 
home. 

An almost empty whiskey bottle stood on the floor 
at his feet; but neither drink nor morphine had 
brought the desired calm to his outraged nerves or 
his shaken mind, which had become a kaleidoscope 
for unstable bits of thought, many hued but all of 
them dark. He had run his shaking fingers so often 
through his hair that disarranged strands of it fell 
over his moist forehead; his face was pasty in color, 
except for a crimson spot on either cheek; his eyes 
were blurred beneath their drooping lids. The tent 
flap was open to the West and the fast descending 
sun, turning blood-color as it neared the horizon hills, 
shone full in his face. To his distorted brain it 
appeared like a glaring evil eye, and he cursed it. 

Suddenly a form blotted out the light. Means 
looked up, scowling. He had been expecting to 
have Hibbard return, and was ready to provoke a 
violent quarrel with him, without reason. 

He started, violently. His eyes widened and fear 
took lodgment in them. For the tent opening was 
blocked by the big form of Mark Gray. 

Means sank back upon the bed, supporting him¬ 
self by his trembling hands thrust behind him. His 
visitor did not speak, and he finally managed to 




296 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


gasp, in husky tones, “Wha . . . what the hell are 
you doing here?” 

“I saw thee pass my home, and I followed thee 
hither,” rejoined Mark, evenly. Means had heard 
that impersonal voice before, and feared it. 

“My God!” he said, under his breath. 

There was a moment of silence which seemed to 
him eternal. He broke it, at length, by crying out 
in an agony of terror. “Well, say something, can’t 
you? Speak! Damn. Damn, I can’t stand this 
silence.” Means’ nervous system was in complete 
revolt. 

Mark regarded him with real pity, for he was 
beginning to understand. The sight sickened him. 
A grown man cringing and showing the white 
feather was not a pleasant sight, but it gave him an 
exultant feeling for just an instant. He conquered 
it, speedily, but the recollection of his many hours 
of anguish was a long way towards being wiped out. 
At the first sight of his adversary inside the tent, 
the old anger had swelled within his heart; his big 
fingers had itched to close about his neck, and to 
conquer the impulse he had been forced to keep his 
hands so tightly clasped that the knuckles of the in¬ 
tertwined fingers showed white under the drawn 
skin. But now that feeling was gone. Only a con¬ 
temptuous pity remained in him. 

“Yea, I can speak,” he said slowly. “I came 
here to speak with thee, and it will not take me 
long to say my say.” 



THE GREATER VICTORY 297 


Means cringed again; a visible shudder passed 
through him. 

“Nay, thou hast no need to be afraid. I have not 
come to hurt thee.” 

The words and the tone in which they were 
spoken acted as an unpleasant but effective stimu¬ 
lant to Means' shaken nerve. They indicated, 
clearly enough, that the Quaker regarded him as a 
coward—him, Robert Vandervetter Means, scion of 
one of the oldest families in Philadelphia! He 
sharply pulled himself together, and responded with 
a show of bravado and an insulting laugh, “Afraid? 
Of you? Well, hardly! If you’ve got anything 
important to say, say it quick, and clear out, I warn 
you . . .” 

Mark lifted his hand, “Yea, I shall speak—and 
go. First, I have been a man of wickedness. I 
have sinned against thee openly by striking thee, 
and in my heart by hating thee. I am sorry. I 
want thee to know that I now harbor no ill-will 
against thee for aught which thou hast done in the 
past, and humbly and sincerely I ask thy pardon for 
all that I have done and thought.” 

He bowed his head and fixed his eyes on the 
ground, with the result that he did not see Means 
straighten up, nor the expression of astonishment 
and unbelief which came over his countenance. The 
other stood up, on feet so unsteady that he had to 
catch hold of the edge of the bed with his left hand 
to retain his balance. His right was thrust out for 




298 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the same purpose, and Mark, now lifting his eyes, 
saw it and advanced his own, hesitatingly, as though 
to grasp it. Suddenly Means gave a laugh, partly of 
relief, partly because the situation had become so 
utterly ludicrous in his mind. But it was sarcastic, 
grating laughter, and Mark withdrew his hand in 
haste and compressed his lips. 

With exaggerated mock politeness Means said, 
“Yes? That is the first thing—and I must say 
that it does great credit to you. And now what, if 
I may be so bold as to inquire, is the other?'’ 

Mark sternly held himself in check, and replied 
in the same low, even voice, “I also came in the 
hope that I might agree with thee, who hast been 
mine adversary, so that on the morrow thou wouldst 
be glad to retract the untrue charge which thou, in 
the heat of passion, made against me. Wilt thou 
not do so, and thus clear thine own conscience of 
sin and my name of the stain at one and the same 
time?” 

The other man looked full and insultingly at him 
from head to foot. His lips twisted into a sneer and 
his eyes took on a cold and ugly expression. Again 
he laughed, loudly. “Yea, I wilt not! Do you 
think I’m a fool, to let you off like that just because 
you come here whining like a whipped cur. I’ve 
stood a lot from you, you damned thieving Quaker. 
No man can steal my liquor, insult me, strike me, 
and then get off scott free.” Means’ speech was 
raging now. “To-morrow I’m going to send you to 




THE GREATER VICTORY 299 


jail . . . do you hear that? . . . to jail, for assault. 
And now get out of here, you . . the unprintable 
epithet again passed his lips, and he blindly swung 
at Mark with his clinched fist. Fright had sobered 
him for a moment, but the reaction brought about 
by the Quaker’s pacificatory words had swung his 
brain, crazed with drugs, completely off its balance. 
Reason fled from him. He saw red. Only one 
idea could permeate his mind—the man before him 
was a coward, after all, and for all his size and 
strength. Who but a craven would come like this, 
whining for mercy? He had forgotten the sledge¬ 
hammer blow with which Mark had felled him at 
the gravel pit; he had forgotten their struggle in 
the meadow and the terrific twist which the other 
had given to his arm as he flung him aside as though 
he had been an infant. His one thought was, “He 
is a coward, a coward, a coward. I struck him 
once before and he meekly let me do it again.” 

Means lurched forward and repeated the blow full 
on Mark’s face, cursing him thickly. 

The old volcano of passion seethed within the 
Quaker’s heart, but he would not let it burst into 
eruption. His muscles ached to flex and deliver a 
counter-blow, but he held them in check, turned 
deliberately and walked steadily out of the tent. To 
the crazed man behind him his act was unbearably 
insulting, far worse than a blow could have been. 
Still swearing, he started to follow. His foot struck 
against the nearly emptied bottle, overturning it. 




300 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Almost all of the remainder of the whiskey flowed 
out, and he swore again. 

Mark was several yards away, moving with un¬ 
hurried, measured steps. The other seized the 
bottle by its neck, and hurled it after the departing 
man. It passed his head and crashed to splinters 
against a stone in front of him. Mark heard his 
would-be assailant stumbling behind him in pursuit. 
Without looking back, he ran, and for the third 
time heard Means’ mocking laughter. 

At length he was safe, alike from the other man 
and himself, and he slowed down to a walk and 
headed homewards. He had failed in half of his 
mission, yet his soul felt strangely comforted and 
at peace, for he knew that he had conquered his 
anger at last. He had not killed his defiler and 
assailant, but rather run from him. And thereby 
won the greater victory. 



CHAPTER XXVI 


“what is bred in the bone-” 

When, a few moments later, Mark opened the 
door of his own home and entered the front room 
it was his turn to be surprised. 

“Faith!” he cried out. “Thou art here?” 

His father answered, eagerly. “Yea, the dear 
girl hath come, bearing good news for thee, and all 
of us. She could- not let us go to our beds this 
night without lightening our hearts by imparting 
it to us.” 

“What is it, Faith ?” begged Mark, his face glow¬ 
ing. 

Faith told him—not all that had occurred when 
Means arrived within the yard, by any means, but 
all about David’s appearance with the missing 
weapon, his report as to where he had found it and 
the other’s admission that it belonged to him. With 
happiness shining forth from her own eyes, she 
added that she had it safe and would produce it in 
the court and make affirmation to the same story 
there. 

Mark sat down, speechless with relief, and the 
smith lifted his hands and exclaimed, “Now may 
the Lord indeed be praised for his justice and mercy 

301 


302 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


towards us. His ways are beyond human compre¬ 
hension ; he maketh babes his agents to discover the 
truth. Yea, the Lord be praised.” 

“Amen and amen,” responded Sister Patience, 
tears running unheeded down her furrowed cheeks. 

“The light is breaking again, Mark, the morning 
of thy deliverance is at hand. Thou hast done well, 
and borne thyself with fortitude and self-restraint 
of late and my many fears on thine account are fast 
vanishing.” 

“Surely thy commendation is dear to me, father,” 
answered the other. “Verily, I have been trying 
hard and . . . and have, I think, just now over¬ 
come an impulse to act hastily, but that doth not 
change the fact that my heart is still unruly and even 
on this First Day it hath been burning with terrible 
wrath.” He went on to describe his visit to Means, 
simply and rather blaming himself for his anger 
than boasting over his physical control. It was not 
easy for Mark to speak. Except when he was under 
the spell of strong excitement, when 1 his words 
fairly poured out, he was a halting conversation¬ 
alist like most men of action. Now he grew red 
and uncomfortable. 

When he had concluded, the smith arose, tower¬ 
ing above him. Laying his broad hand on Mark’s 
shoulder he said, solemnly, “My son, it appeareth 
that we have still more for which to be thankful. 
Thou hast in truth gained a noble victory for the 
side of Christ this afternoon.” 



BRED IN THE BONE 


303 


“Yea, it is so. I am proud of thee, Mark.” As 
Faith added her words of commendation she crossed 
the room and, sitting down in a chair beside him, 
gently laid her hand upon both of his which were 
clasped in his lap. 

Mark flushed still further. 

“Perhaps. I hope that it is so.” He hesitated 
and his face grew troubled. Slowly shaking his 
head and keeping his eyes fixed on his feet he began 
to speak again, haltingly at first, but soon with a 
passionate impetuosity as though he could no 
longer keep his disturbing thoughts to himself. 

“Yea, I hope so. But I greatly fear that my 
having checked the urgings of my inner nature this 
once meaneth but little. The impulse to seize the 
man and dash him upon the ground was in my heart, 
as it had been many times previous. It is the 
thought of that which troubleth me beyond words, 
and maketh me afraid that I shall never be free 
from these sudden temptations to act violently. 
They come over me all in an instant, and with such 
force that unless I have steeled my will in advance 
—as to-day—they overcome me, and I act before 
I can think. I may be sorry the next moment, but 
of what good is that? The evil is done. All the 
remorse in the world cannot cure it then.” 

Faith pressed his hand and would have spoken, 
but he only continued the more impetuously, “Nay, 
it is true. Hour after hour I have thought upon 
this, during the past week, and daily grown more 



304 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 

and more troubled. I think that I would rather 
die than to say this, Faith, but I must say it. How 
can I ever honestly seek thy love, and thee, while I 
am as I am? I cannot; I cannot. Oh, what is 
the matter with me ? Others do not act as I do, and, 
although I have no way of knowing, I truly believe 
that they cannot feel as I feel. 

“I cannot hope to make you understand. I have 
no words to explain it, but there seemeth to be a 
force like a mighty flood within me. The storms of 
sudden passion cause it to rise and I am instantly 
swept away by it; my will is like a paper barrier 
against it. You cannot know the tenth—nay, not 
the hundredth—part of the impulses which are daily 
attacking me, forcing me to do things which seem 
strange, some of them trivial, some appalling. 
Surely there is something wrong with me, some¬ 
thing different from that which prompteth the ac¬ 
tions of other men—thine, father, and those of our 
neighbors. I cannot understand it! O God, what 
is the trouble with me!” 

With a smothered groan, close to a sob, Mark 
shook off Faith’s hand and covered his face. Sis¬ 
ter Patience was weeping softly. Otherwise the 
silence which followed was complete. Faith was 
very pale, John Gray nearly as white as she, and 
he looked aged and drawn. 

In little more than a whisper, and as though speak¬ 
ing only to himself, the smith at length said, “ ‘What 
is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh/ 




BRED IN THE BONE 


305 


Verily, the proverb is true. I know little concern¬ 
ing the opposing laws of heredity and environment, 
but surely the blood of our forebears calls with a 
mighty voice. Only one power exceeds it—the 
power of God.” 

Mark and Faith both looked up at him in be¬ 
wilderment. 

“What art thou saying? What dost thou mean?” 
asked the former. 

“Thy confession was hard, but I have one which 
is still harder to make, my boy. I have not been 
honest with thee, Mark. All thy life I have been 
acting a lie towards thee—as Sister Patience and 
all of the older generation in Content know. Oh, 
I thought it a venial sin—I pretended that it was 
that thou mightest be spared the heart-aches which 
might have followed knowledge of the truth. But 
now I wonder if my deceit hath not done thee more 
harm than good; if that doth not always follow, 
sooner or later. ‘He visiteth the sins of the fathers 
upon the children, even unto the third and fourth 
generation.’ Nay, that is not strictly true, in this 
case.” 

“What . . . ?” Mark would have stood up, but 
the heavy hand of the other still rested upon his 
shoulder and held him in his chair. 

“Wait. I shall tell thee all, now, as I should 
have told thee long ago; as soon as thou came to the 
age of understanding. Yea, I should have told 
thee. Forewarned is forearmed, I should not have 





306 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


forgotten that. I thought to help, but I have 
injured thee. If thou hadst known the source of 
thy seemingly strange and unnatural impulses thou 
mightest, with God’s help, have more easily over¬ 
come them. My love for thee is mine only excuse, 
and the wish to spare thee knowledge of the unjust 
reproach which was once borne by . . 

“By whom?” demanded Mark, hot and cold by 
turns. 

“Be patient, Mark,” interrupted the weeping 
housekeeper. “He wilt tell thee, now, in good 
time.” 

“ ‘Patient!’ How can I when . . .” 

John Gray had left his side and was now walking 
ponderously across the room to the old secretary 
which stood in the corner where it had been since the 
days of Mark’s childhood—a thing of semi-mystery. 
He took a tarnished key from one drawer thereof, 
and with it unlocked a smaller one. Then he 
paused, and stood with head bowed as though in 
earnest prayer. 

When he faced them again he held in his hand 
two small photographs. One of them he passed 
to Mark, who took it, hesitatingly. The young man 
had to force himself to look at it, and his vision 
became suddenly misty as he saw a faded, sweet, 
young face from which the eyes seemed to look up 
into his with a calm and loving gaze. 

“I know,” he said. “She . . . she was my 
mother.” 



BRED IN THE BONE 


307 


“Yea, thy mother, Mark—one of the purest, love¬ 
liest women who ever walked, for a brief time, upon 
this earth.” John Gray took the photograph back 
in his hand, and let his eyes rest lingeringly upon 
it. Then he passed the other one to Mark, who re¬ 
garded it with surprise and incomprehension. 

Certainly he .had never seen that pictured face 
before, yet there was something singularly familiar 
about it, too. What he looked upon was the eager, 
joyous portrait of a man of about his own age, al¬ 
though the curling mustache which he wore made 
him seem slightly older. His hair, parted on the 
side, fell in unrebuked natural waves across his 
broad forehead, the lips smiled, and there was a 
noticeable cleft in his firm chin. It was a virile 
countenance, not really handsome, but pleasant and 
frank. Suddenly Mark felt his heart-beat quicken 
strangely. He had seen a countenance strangely 
like that, a thousand times—at least he had seen its 
image in the glass. 

“That,” said the smith, slowly, “was thy father.” 



CHAPTER XXVII 


“will never come out of the flesh.” 

“My . . . my father?” repeated Mark, while 
Faith started up in an amazement equaling his own. 
“Why . . . why, father, what doth thou mean? 
I do not understand.” 

“It is true. Wait. I have told thee that thou 
shouldst hear the whole story now. It is true 
that thou art also my son—the child of my heart 
and legally my heir by adoption. Thy mother 
was my dearly beloved wife. But thou wert bred 
of the man whose picture thou holdest in thine hand. 
He was thy real father, and the father of all those 
violent impulses which have so troubled us, and 
distressed thee since thou hast grown to years of 
understanding. Yet thou shouldst not blame him, 
for he was—like thyself—a victim of his heredity, 
and child of an environment as unlike thine as 
black is unlike white. Knowing, now, the tempta¬ 
tions which assail thee, brought up as thou hast 
been under my watchful care and with all the ad¬ 
vantages of a Quaker training, I can the more 
readily understand his acts, and forgive them—if 
that were necessary. 

“Nay, do not look at me in that manner, Mark. 

There is no reason why thou shouldst be horrified, 

308 


NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 309 


or hang thy head in shame. He did no evil thing; 
broke no law of God’s imposing. A pure and 
great love cannot be born of wickedness, and he 
loved thy mother . . . even as I loved her. She 
was his wife before she was mine.” 

Mark drew a breath of audible relief, and re¬ 
turned his gaze to the photograph. Strange emo¬ 
tions were at conflict within his heart, and he was 
scarcely conscious of the renewed pressure of 
Faith’s hand on his. 

“See, now, how strangely history repeateth it¬ 
self,” continued John Gray. He had nearly con¬ 
quered the emotion which had been causing his 
voice to shake, and was calm, almost impersonal, 
again. “How often have I thought of the truth of 
that saying, too, during the recent days, when some¬ 
thing strangely like the melodrama of play actors 
upon the stage hath been taking place here in our 
peaceful village, and whose end is not yet. It was 
forcibly impressed on the minds of many of us of 
the passing generation on that First Day morning, 
a fortnight ago, when thou, Mark, sprang to stop 
the horse which was on the point of running away 
with thee, Sister Faith, and thy family. 

“But I am ahead of my story, and I know that 
thou art eager for facts, not an old man’s fancies. 
Part of the tale, which is thine and mine alike, 
I know from personally sharing in it; part from 
what thy mother told me. It happened nearly a 
quarter of a century ago, and would seem scarcely 



310 ' MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


real to me, now, if it were not for thy presence 
and what thou art passing through. Thou art in¬ 
deed thy father’s son—in outward appearance and 
mental impulse.” 

Mark again looked down at the picture, and be¬ 
lieved. 

“His name was Will Morgan. He was from the 
plains of the Far West, bred and reared in an 
atmosphere of freedom from all restraints, a child 
of the out-of-doors with a will as uncircumscribed 
as the winds themselves. He lived on a ranch, with 
many broad acres of prairie land given over to the 
breeding of fine horses. He was, moreover, not 
only a most expert horseman himself, but a man of 
great agility and physical prowess; a deadly shot 
with rifle and revolver.” 

The young man’s eyes suddenly kindled, and his 
breathing quickened. “Father,” he cried, still ad¬ 
dressing the smith as he always had addressed him. 
“Dost thou think it possible that ability even to 
use a pistol, can be inherited with the blood? 
I ” 

“I have no doubt of it, my boy. What other 
explanation for what hath occurred in thy case is 
possible? And thou wilt soon see other evidences 
of this powerful law of heritage. Will Morgan 
was only a little older than thou art now, when he 
entered our lives. He had come to the East for the 
first time, following the call of his adventurous 
blood, for he ever loved to roam and see places 



NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 311 


strange to him. His purpose was, in part, to 
bring on a shipment of his blooded stock for sale. 

“It was all new and delightful to him, at first, 
but soon the crowded city became oppressive to 
him. He was in Philadelphia, no longer, alas, 
the ‘city of brotherly love/ Pie longed for the 
freedom of the open air and the wide places/' 

“Yea, well I know that longing!” interrupted 
Mark, impulsively. 

“It accounteth for much of thy restlessness of 
spirit, I doubt not, my son . . . my boy.” 

“Nay, father! Call me ‘son.’” 

“One morning—it was on a Saturday—he could 
stand it no longer, and mounting one of his own 
spirited horses he rode westward out of the teem¬ 
ing city, leaving his course to Fate, or those im¬ 
pulses by which he was ever guided. He stopped 
that night at a small town and started again at sun¬ 
rise of the First Day, caring little where he rode 
so long as it was through the open country. Fate 
led him to . . . Content.” The narrator paused, 
as though the recollection were painful to him. 

“Friends were going to the Meeting House, just 
as they went this morning—most of us humbly 
afoot, but a few who, like Faith, lived at a distance, 
in wagons. Among the latter number were Friend 
Mark Leadbetter, who hath since died, and his only 
daughter, Charity . . . thy mother.” 

“Why,” broke in Faith. “I did not know that. 
The Leadbetter place is next beyond mine own.” 



312 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“The same. I used to go there as frequently as 
I dared, and know every tree, every bush along the 
way which Mark hath often trod of late. For 
thou must know that I, too, was young then . . . 
and ... in love.” 

He stopped again, with bowed head, and Faith 
stretched out her free hand and laid it with in¬ 
finite comfort and tenderness on his. 

“How often memory hath carried me back to 
that day as I have watched thee, Mark, with diffi¬ 
culty suppressing thine eagerness as thou covertly 
watched for Faith to appear, driving meeting- 
wards down the same highway. In my time it was 
but a country road. Ah, youth! Gentile and Jew; 
Christian and infidel, we are all pagans then. 

“Charity Leadbetter had cared for me from her 
childhood—I can say that truthfully. I believed 
that we would some day wed, and so did others. 
But now I know that I had touched her affections, 
merely; I had not stirred the depths of her heart 
and ... I never did,” he sadly added. 

“On the First Day morning when her father’s 
carry-all turned Smilie’s corner I could not help 
but turn my head at the sound of their horses’ hoof- 
beats, so distinctive to mine ears. I saw her sit¬ 
ting upon the front seat, so wholesome, fair to the 
eye, and demure. Then, like a bolt of lightning 
from the clear blue, occurred the event which shook 
the village to its foundations. Content had never 
known such excitement before, nor hath it known 




NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 313 


it since . . . until thou, Mark, grew to manhood.” 
For an instant there was the barest suggestion of 
a smile about the corners of the smith’s lips. 

"Just as that city man, Means, tore around the 
same corner in his automobile, so the young Will 
Morgan in his queer rainment—queer, that is 
to us—swept around it upon his foam-flecked, gal¬ 
loping horse. He was shouting aloud, and swing¬ 
ing his broad-brimmed felt hat madly—not because 
he was evil at heart and a Sabbath breaker, but 
from the sheer joy of living and of being in action. 
He little knew how he was outraging the ethics of 
our sect by behaving thus, especially upon a Meet¬ 
ing day. 

"The pair which Friend Mark Leadbetter was 
driving were also spirited steeds, and the startling 
appearance of the stranger caused them instantly to 
break and run away. Thy grandfather, although 
a strong man himself, was powerless to control 
them, and they dashed madly past us as we stood, 
unable to move. / have ever been slow to think and 
to act. 

"Then the stranger performed a brave and gal¬ 
lant act, even as thou didst, a fortnight ago. With 
wonderful skill he instantly checked his horse, 
causing it to stop in the midst of its mad gallop 
and swing about in the air while still rearing erect 
on its hind legs. Then, as the runaways over¬ 
took him, he fell in with the plunging off horse, 
leaned far out from his saddle and caught the rein 



314 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


close to the bit. It stirreth my heart even to-day 
to recall that moment. Will Morgan was not 
shouting, now. The boyish smile had vanished 
from his countenance. His jaw had the same firm 
set, and his eyes the same intense light which I 
have sometimes seen in thine.” 

The look was in them at the moment. Mark 
was tense with strange excitement, feeling every 
emotion which his own father and his father by 
adoption must have felt, twenty-odd years before. 
Faith, too, was leaning slightly forward and 
breathing fast. 

“The frightened horse was hard of mouth, and 
the rescuer’s mount not trained for such work. It 
shied. Will Morgan was torn from the saddle and 
dragged some feet along the roadway. But his firm 
grasp was not to be broken and the pair came to a 
stop, terrified and heaving.” 

Mark visualized it all—such a rescue as Jeremiah 
had briefly described as having been seen by him up- 
upon the silver screen. And the hero had married the 
girl whom he had saved! So there had never been 
real life and stirring drama in Content! How little 
he had known. 

“Thy mother was saved,” continued the smith. 
“But her savior’s clothing was sadly torn and his 
left leg twisted and horribly bruised. Just as 
Faith sprang from the carriage, two weeks ago, to 
take thy head upon her knees, so Charity then sprang 
from hers; for she, likewise, was always quick to 




NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 315 


act with compassion for the suffering, and when her 
tender heart was touched. It was touched, then. 
The dashing bravery of the young stranger, together 
with his plight, stirred it as my simple love never 
could. She was truly a woman, and all true women 
love courage and pity those in pain. 

“The man was suffering, but he smiled up into 
her face. I saw that smile, and the look in her 
gentle eyes, and my thankful heart grew suddenly 
heavy, even wickedly rebellious. Her father also got 
down, and thanked the stranger, grudgingly. I 
knew how he felt—bitter anger against him for his 
act which alike caused the runaway and profaned 
the Sabbath, and gratitude for the rescue which he 
had performed at the peril of his life. He could 
not help insisting upon taking the young man home: 
his Christian duty was clear and he was a deeply 
religious man, of a kind. But it was certain that it 
gave him small pleasured 

“I never knew him, did I, father?” asked Mark. 

“Nay. He died when thou wert a mere infant. 
The two took Will Morgan home and ministered 
unto him under the direction of our beloved phy¬ 
sician, who was then little older than I. For two 
weeks he lay in their house, his leg so badly hurt that 
he could not bear his weight upon it. During that 
time Charity Leadbetter nursed him with the patience 
and tenderness of an angel. I need say no more: 
the inevitable cannot but happen. They were both 
young; even those who wear the Quaker gray often 



316 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


cherish the rainbow colors of romance in their 
hearts; he loved thy mother on sight—perhaps it 
was mutual. Only He who knoweth the hearts of 
men can say.” 

“Of course she did,” Faith answered, and quickly 
added, as she saw the expression of pain pass like a 
cloud-shadow over John Gray’s face, “Oh, I am 
sorry.” 

“Thou needst not be. It was the will of God. 
Ah, well, that was years ago. Enough for me to 
say that I knew it soon, for I visited the house al¬ 
most daily, hoping against hope. I also knew that 
thy mother, Mark, shortly read another message 
written in his soul—that he was big and clean, 
despite the outcroppings of a nature and an up¬ 
bringing which were alike foreign enough to us of 
Content. Never, to the moment of his tragic death, 
did he fail her in that respect, nor cease to worship 
her, as I learned later. 

“Will Morgan was frank and honest in his love 
for her. Before his convalescence was complete he 
acknowledged it both to her and to Friend Mark 
Leadbetter, asking him for Charity’s hand in marri¬ 
age. It was then that thy grandfather made the 
same great mistake that hath been made by count¬ 
less other parents, especially those whose viewpoint 
has been made narrow by living to themselves alone, 
and whose word has been law within their house¬ 
holds. He refused him, and refused him with 
anger. I had the story from Will’s lips, for I could 



NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 317 


not but be his friend, he was so manly and himself 
the spirit of friendliness. Thou hast that from 
him, too. 

“He was an Old Testament man, thy grandfather. 
A Christian and a Friend by name, he patterned his 
life rather by the words of the patriarchs and proph¬ 
ets of the ‘thou shalt not’ religion. Never would he 
allow a daughter of his to wed a man of worldly 
mind and an unbeliever. Will Morgan had frankly 
confessed to us that he knew no God but Him who 
dwells in the waving grass of the wind-swept prai¬ 
ries, the templed hills, the pure running waters, the 
blazing heaven at noon-day, and the stars which 
shine at night. I understood, in part; thy mother, 
wholly. It was for her enough, although there 
never lived a more perfect Christian nor a truer 
Friend. 

“Pleas and arguments—thy mother’s tears—were 
all in vain. Mark Leadbetter bitterly ordered the 
stranger to depart from his gates. He ... he 
came to me. That night he passed in my room, 
pacing the floor, although his leg was barely healed 
and pained him grievously. He told me all. He 
said that Charity and he were as two parts of one 
soul, separated by a thousand miles at birth, but 
brought together by Fate or God . . . call the power 
what I would. I had to listen, with leaden heart, 
and calm him as best I could. I have no 
doubt that thou canst understand his feelings, 
Mark.” 



318 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Yea. I think that I can well understand,” 
answered the young man. 

“I can never forget that night. Through the long 
hours, with only the cold moonlight illuminating the 
room, we argued as man to man and I saw his soul, 
stripped naked. My own was dead for the time—it 
died when he told me that Charity was determined 
as he; that if her father would not yield she would 
go with him in face of all. And I knew it was 
true. 

“In the morning I went to Friend Mark Lead- 
better and interceded for them. What else could I 
do ? The woman’s happiness was everything to me. 
I could not see her heart broken. It was useless. 
I earned their gratitude and his undying hatred, 
especially when they went away together openly, 
cursed from his threshold. Charity was of legal age, 
but he would have prevented her by force and done 
bodily injury to the man if I had not interfered. 
I was always strong,” added the giant, 
simply. 

“Yea, they went away . . . together. The sun¬ 
light went out of my life with them, for a time. 
The next day I received a little letter from thy 
mother. They had been married in Philadelphia.” 

The speaker paused again, and sat with closed 
eyes and slightly moving lips for a full minute. 
Then he said, “From that hour to the day of his 
death, Mark Leadbetter never so much as spoke his 
daughter's name.” He was interrupted by an angry 



NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 319 


exclamation from Mark and one of pity uttered 
by Faith. 

“Yea. I have no doubt but that ‘honor thy father 
and thy mother’ was, in his mind, the greatest of 
all the commandments, and he felt that she had 
broken that one, whereas she had not. She contin¬ 
ued to write him loving letters regularly. He 
never answered. Fie never even opened them, but 
threw them into the fire. Misguided by what he be¬ 
lieved was ‘principle,’ Mark Leadbetter cast off his 
daughter, perhaps he banished her even from his 
thoughts . . . but nay, no father could do that, 
and no man who had ever known thy mother’s love 
could ever forget her, even for an instant. I pitied 
him, for I know that none of his other children 
could ever fill her place in the home or in his affec¬ 
tions, restricted as they were. Retaliation is a 
two-edged sword without a handle. He who seizes 
upon it, in anger’s heat, always wounds himself 
worse than his other victim. Yea, always.” 

“Verily it is so. But forgiveness, which is love, 
is both a bridge to reunite, no matter how deep the 
breach which hath been made, and a balm to heal 
the hurt in one’s own heart.” 

“Spoken like a true Friend, Faith,” answered 
John Gray, and continued, “But I should speak no 
evil of the dead. The matter seemed to be ended. 
The months passed—slowly enough, for me—and 
memory of the sensation which had so stirred our 
village slowly faded. Even the wound in mine 



320 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


own heart grew less painful; Time is the great 
physician. Then came another day when it was 
reopened suddenly. Thy mother returned to Con¬ 
tent, alone.” 

Mark started and would have spoken, but the 
smith hurried on. 

“She went directly to her father’s house. He 
would not see her, nor allow her so much as to step 
her foot across the threshold, although I think that 
his bitter denial caused his death, a few months 
later. Yea, such men are more to be pitied than 
blamed.” 

“Nay, I say,” cried Mark. “No punishment is 
great enough for them.” 

“Guard thy tongue, my son, and thy feelings as 
well. Thou hast uttered the hasty judgment of 
youth, which is merciless. Faith’s words should 
have taught thee a lesson.” 

“I know. But she was my mother ” answered 
the other, hotly. 

“True. Well, doubtless he was bitterly punished. 
There are hells upon earth; the fires of conscience 
burn more fiercely than any kindled by man, and 
heart-aches are worse than any bodily pain. Con¬ 
fession and forgiveness is their only balm, as Faith 
hath said. 

“But enough of that. Thou wert yet to be born 
to her, Mark, and, although she was plentifully 
supplied with money, her only thought had been to 
get home where loving tenderness might surround 




NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 321 


her in her approaching trial. Denied by her father 
she would have gone away again in bitter sorrow 
but . . . God permitted me to find her. I ... I 
brought her to my family wfio received her as a 
daughter, and in this house thou came into the 
world.” 

“No wonder that thou hast been as a father to 
me, always,” Mark interjected. “But I do not un¬ 
derstand. Where was . . . was my real father? 
Thou saidst ...” 

“I had forgotten, for the moment. A few weeks 
previous he had been killed—shot down by a band 
of horse thieves while defending his own.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Mark and Faith, simultaneously. 

“Thy mother could never bring herself to tell 
us all the details. Nor could we blame her, for 
she saw him murdered, even herself took part in 
fighting off the drunken raiders. In those few 
months she had become a child of the out-of-doors 
and he had taught her to shoot at a target, so it is 
not at all strange that thou shouldst have inherited 
the love of fire-arms and the ability to use them 
naturally. Will Morgan died in her arms, blessing 
her for the love which she had given him, for their 
brief life together had been one of sunshine with 
but one cloud in it—the knowledge of her father’s 
anger. And that hung over her spirit until the 
night, two years after thy birth, when she followed 
him into the Great Beyond.” 

There was another period of silence, during which 



322 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


all in the little room were busy with their own 
varied thoughts. Then John Gray sighed deeply, 
shook his heavy head and spoke again. 

“There is little more to tell thee. I had never 
ceased loving her for an instant, and her helpless 
presence in our home rekindled the embers. She, 
too, had always cared for me. I did all within my 
power to lighten her burden and make her lot hap¬ 
pier—as did my mother and Sister Patience, who 
had come to dwell with us. But there were 
many in Content who treated us all coldly at that 
time.” 

“Of course,” said Mark. “I know them.” 

“It made no difference. They changed when we 
were married, and her gratitude was my reward. 
Yea, it was gratitude and the thought of thee which 
caused her to accept my love, I am certain. She 
was never really well, again, and she knew that thou 
wouldst need a father's care. We were wed when 
thou wert about a year old, and were happy together, 
for a little time. With her it was the quiet happi¬ 
ness, which comes with peace after a storm, rather 
th”n any ecstasy of love. Ah, well, I was content. 
I legally adopted thee as my son, and at the next 
monthly meeting the Friends agreed that the secret 
of thy parentage should be kept locked in the minds 
of all who knew it, so that thou mightest grow up 
in all things one of us.” 

He stopped. The story was ended. Mark was 
tightly clasping one hand of his foster-parent and 




NEVER COME OUT OF FLESH 323 


Faith the other. Both she and Sister Patience had 
tears upon their cheeks. Mark broke the silence 
which followed, by saying slowly, “Yea, now I un¬ 
derstand. Many things which have been inexplic¬ 
able to me have been made clear. I am glad that 
thou hast told me all, father, and I want thee to 
know that if I could love thee more than I have, 
in spite of my waywardness, I should do so from 
now on for all that thou hast done and borne for 
me. Perhaps forewarned is forearmed. Know¬ 
ing now the source of my temptations, I may be 
able to meet them with a stronger front.” 

“I am sure that thou canst, Mark,” replied Faith, 
bravely. 

At her voice the young man started, and his face 
lost some of its calmness. Pain crept into his eyes. 

“Oh, but can I ever be sure?” he cried. “Noth¬ 
ing can change my nature. Temptations will come 
again, and again, and again. Who knows when I 
shall yield to them, even more than I have in the 
past. My father was a man of blood—he had even 
killed his fellow men.” 

“Only in what amounted to warfare,” protested 
John Gray. “Not that I condone fighting, but the 
shepherd must guard his sheep. He gaveth his 
life for them, in a sense/’ 

“I was not thinking of that. Thou wouldst have 
done the same, perhaps, although I think not. It 
is rather that I am afraid, bitterly afraid, of myself. 
Thou knowest the things which I have already 




324 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


done, under the spur of the hot blood which is my 
heritage. What might I not do if the provocation 
were greater still?” 

It was Faith who answered him. “I am not 
afraid for thee, Mark. God in His wisdom giveth 
men their natures for some good purpose, surely. 
If thou hadst not had the strength and quickness 
which were thy father’s, thou couldst not have 
stopped the old Prophet—as he did the pair which 
drew thy mother—or saved us in the fire. Thou 
art already learning to control thy tendencies which 
appear evil, and . . . and we shall help thee to 
fight the good fight against them, until thou hast 
conquered them altogether. I say ‘who knows 
when thine heritage will stand thee in good stead 
and be thy salvation.’ ” 

“Thou art verily an angel, Faith,” he answered 
for the third time. “But I do not know: I do not 
know. I must think. Perhaps after I am free, 
to-morrow . . . Oh, I do not know.” 

“Yea, think, but think right with the spirit of 
God guiding thee. I will leave thee now, for I 
must hasten home. Nay, I can go alone. It is 
better that I should.” 




CHAPTER XXVIII 


TRAGEDY 

The crimson sun had disappeared behind the rim 
of the western hills. Only a few exotic streaks of 
burnished copper and deep orange slashed the pur¬ 
pling blue of the sky. The valley was a great cup 
filling with mottled shadows to the brim. The 
soothing voices of eventide were rising on the air 
and mingling with the subdued sounds of dishes 
being placed upon the table within the Dexter home¬ 
stead as Friend Dyer’s half-grown daughters set 
out the simple cold viands, cooked the day before. 

The man himself had stepped to the door, and was 
looking down the road towards the Franklyn place. 
He had been thinking of Faith much of the day, 
while apparently immersed in the Holy writ. She 
had looked so pale that morning in the Meeting 
House that he had been conscious of quite a new 
feeling towards her. He wanted her more than 
ever, but his was now not altogether a selfish de¬ 
sire. To be sure, she would be a great comfort and 
help to him in his declining years, if he could ob¬ 
tain her, but he would be very kind to her. Her 
lot had been a hard one since the death of her 
parents and of course she was suffering, now, but 

32s 


326 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


she would get over that. First love fades as quickly 
as springtime’s flowers, thought he. The golden- 
rod of Autumn is much more enduring. 

The sound of a galloping horse broke in upon his 
pleasant reverie and he looked up with a start. 
Who, in Content, would be riding like that on the 
First Day? The light had faded almost entirely, 
but Dexter was able to see that the rider was not 
a man but a small boy. An instant later he had 
recognized both the horse and its rider—David 
Franklyn. He was clad only in undershirt and 
little pantaloons and was bouncing desperately on 
the horse’s broad bare back. With a terrified pre¬ 
monition gripping his heart Dyer Dexter hurried 
down the short path to intercept him and David 
drew rein at the same moment. He was panting, 
and choking with sobs. 

“David! What art thou doing like this?” de¬ 
manded the man, seizing him roughly by the arm. 

“Oh . . . Oh, sister Faith ...” A terrified 
wail followed. 

“Quick. Tell me what hath happened. Hath 
she been hurt?” Dexter’s grasp tightened convul¬ 
sively on the lad’s bare arm, and he cried aloud with 
pain. 

“She’s gone!” David threw himself forward on 
the Prophet’s neck and buried his tear-stained face 
in the coarse mane. 

“‘Gone?’ Where? What dost thou mean? 
Answer me!” 



TRAGEDY 


327 


“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t know. The man . . . 
he came and took her away. Oh, Friend Dyer, 
canst thou not get her back? I love her so.” The 
boy’s terrible grief both shook and steadied Dex¬ 
ter. He awkwardly patted his arm in a manner such 
as he had never used with one of his own children, 
and said, more quietly, “There, there, David. It’s 
going to be all right. She will be found, but thou 
must help us. Tell me all that happened.” 

David’s trembling and sobbing lessened a little 
and he manfully tried to control himself. Turning 
upon the man his wide, frightened eyes from which 
the big tears still flowed, unnoticed, he began, “The 
man came with his automobile and caught hold of 
her. She screamed ...” Again he broke off 
with a bitter sob. 

“Yea. But thou must tell me all—just what 
happened, if thou wouldst save thy sister. Try, 
boy. Speak slowly. Oh, I cannot stand this!” 

“I will try. Oh, I will try, Friend Dyer. Sister 
Hope and I were undressing to go to bed. Faith 
had given us our bread and milk early and then gone 
for a walk. She said that she would be back be¬ 
fore dark, and for us not to be afraid, for Jeremiah 
was there, and to start to get ready for bed at sun¬ 
down.” All this he told consecutively although he 
kept catching his breath, and as he continued the 
sobs again punctuated his broken sentences. 

“Sister Hope was in bed and I was almost ready 
and just looking out of the window to see if she 




328 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


was coming down the road. I saw her and ho-hoed 
. . . and she waved to me. Then I heard the auto¬ 
mobile come down through the yard, awful fast, 
and . . . and I leaned out to look at it. It was 
wabbling from side to side. It struck the gate post 
an awful bang, but the man didn’t stop . . . not 
then he didn’t stop, but . . . but he did when he 
got close to ... to sister Faith.” , 

“What man was it, David? Tell me.” 

“The one that had the pistol. The Mean man. 
I hated him, and so did sister Faith because he 
fought with her, this afternoon.” 

“He fought. Nay, but go on.” 

“I saw her try to run past ... he had stopped 
the automobile on the grass close to the fence. But 
he jumped out and caught hold . . . caught hold of 
her . . . and . . . and she screamed . . . she 
screamed to me. And I couldn’t help her, like I did 
this afternoon. I hollered back that I was com¬ 
ing . . . with my sling-shot . . .” The tears 
were fast coursing down his cheeks again. “But 
when I got out-doors she wasn’t there any more. 
Oh!” 

“And the man?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know. He has taken her 
away. The automobile was going again as fast as 
. . . as fast as hell.” 

The word passed unnoticed and unrebuked. Dyer 
Dexter was experiencing something new and ter¬ 
rific—life in the raw; black drama and tragedy. 



TRAGEDY 


329 


He barely heard the rest; how David had called 
to little Hope not to cry, that it was all right, and 
then run in search of Jeremiah who was nowhere to 
be found. And how he had bridled the old Prophet 
and ridden for help. It was the great moment in 
Dexter’s narrow, drab life. Emotions which he 
never knew the human heart could feel were tear¬ 
ing him: love, hate, something greater almost than 
either of them. Renunciation and sacrifice had held 
no place in his spiritual being until that instant. 
He drew a deep, rasping breath like a groan, and 
spoke in a voice strangely vibrant. 

“Ride, David. Seek Mark Gray. I am old and 
can do nothing, not even think, now. But he can 
save her if any one can. O God, O God grant that 
he may! I will send some one for thy sister Hope,” 
he added and called after the boy, who had already 
turned the horse and kicked his bare heels against 
his fat sides, “Tell no one else of what hath hap¬ 
pened! Thy sister’s fair name . . The rest 

was lost in the sound of the hoof-beats on the hard 
road. 

There was the sound of supper dishes being set 
upon the bare table in the Gray homestead, too, and 
it fell gratefully on Mark’s ears as he stood in the 
deep shadow of the porch after watching Faith 
out of sight down the darkening road. For the 
moment his conflicting emotions were at peace. The 
girl’s declaration of courage and confidence had 



330 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


driven all painful thoughts from his mind. Per¬ 
haps she was right, and on the morrow all the clouds 
of doubt would disappear and the sun shine out for 
him—for them both. At least she could now face 
his false accuser almost cheerfully. The God of 
his fathers would not permit the truth to be pre¬ 
vailed against. With the thought of Means came a 
momentary tightening of his muscles and his heart 
burned hotly, but he quieted himself with another 
thought of Faith. How lovely she had looked, how 
gloriously she had behaved! 

“Mark, our simple supper is ready,” announced 
Sister Patience from within the doorway. 

“And I am assuredly ready for my simple sup¬ 
per,” he responded, with a quick smile. The woman 
turned back into the darkened house with a light 
heart. If the youth whom she almost idolized could 
jest, all was well, and John Gray's confession had 
been heaven-inspired. 

Mark turned to follow her, but stopped, arrested 
by the sound of galloping hoof beats on the macadam 
roadway. As Friend Dyer Dexter had started, so 
Mark did now; and when he, too, recognized David 
his heart leaped into his throat. A fearful premon¬ 
ition of evil took possession of him and he ran 
down the path, seized the old horse by the bit and 
swung the boy to the ground with almost one con¬ 
certed motion. 

“David! What is it? Faith ... ?” he cried. 
The lad was still sobbing spasmodically, but he was 




TRAGEDY 


331 


calmer than he had been before, and he choked out 
his whole tragic story almost without stopping, and 
paying no attention to the man’s frequent inter¬ 
ruptions. As David stumbled headlong through 
his account of what had occurred, and Mark's im¬ 
agination pieced out his half-formed sentences and 
anticipated the almost unthinkable conclusion, aw¬ 
ful wrath shook him. He ground his heel into the 
road, and clinched his hands until the nails dug into 
the flesh. 

As Dyer Dexter had cried, now cried Mark, “O 
God! O God!” 

David ended his panting recital with the words, 
“I stopped first at Friend Dyer’s, for his home was 
nearer, and he was on the porch. And he bade me 
ride for thee, Mark. He said that thou alone 
couldst save her. Oh, thou canst, Mark ? Say that 
thou canst.” 

“Yea, David. I will save her. God will aid me. 
If Dyer Dexter said that I could, I can. I must— 
though I know not how. Tell me, which way did 
the automobile go, David?” 

“This way. Towards the village.” 

Mark was no longer himself. Something strange 
had happened within his brain. He vaguely felt 
that his body was cold, but it was like a thing de¬ 
tached, leaden, inanimate. But his brain was alive, 
keenly alive. And his thoughts were no longer 
passionately hot, but cool, coherent, incisive. Even 
while the boy was answering his question, he was 



332 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


reasoning the matter out. “Means could not have 
planned it. Fate placed her in his path and he 
obeyed a drunken impulse—an impulse like many of 
mine own in the past. He was almost insane when 
I left him. Perhaps he will come to his senses, soon. 
But if he does not . . . O God, if he does not! He 
did not pass here—I should have seen them, for I 
have not left this spot. He must have swung off 
into the wood road which leaves the highway below 
Dyer Dexter’s farm. Yea, he would have done 
that. He must have known that it rejoineth the 
highway beyond Smilie's Corner, for where would 
he be headed if not for the city . . . for home? 
There are no houses on that road and now it is dark. 
No one to see her, to hear her screams if . . . He 
would drive like a madman: he is a madman, now. 
Why did I not kill him this afternoon?” 

For an instant the blood surged hotly from his 
heart and the red veil fell before his eyes. But only 
for an instant. .Reason returned, and connected 
thought. “She would have jumped, at once, if he 
had not found some way to prevent her. Yea, she 
would have jumped even if it had cost her her life. 
Perhaps she fainted from fright. That was it, she 
fainted. And she is at his mercy. His mercy!” 

He turned, uttering an oath, and fairly thrust 
David towards the house. 

“Run! Tell them. Tell them that I have gone,” 
he cried, as he sprang astride the heaving horse and 
dug his heels cruelly into its flanks, simultaneously 




TRAGEDY 


333 


jerking the bit almost from its outraged mouth as 
he wheeled it about. He must reach the wood road 
at once, on the bare chance that he would be in time 
to catch them there. If he failed . . . Mark could 
not think beyond that point. 



CHAPTER XXIX 


IN THE NIGHT 

A lumbering gallop was the utmost that the old 
Prophet could achieve, and to Mark it seemed like 
a snail’s pace as his thoughts flew before him on 
black wings. The horse thundered down the de¬ 
serted highway and came to the wood road. 

It was scarcely more than a cart path deeply rutted 
in the loam, narrow, and lined with intruding boughs 
and bushes. There blackness reigned complete, and 
subconsciously the man’s terrors on Faith’s account 
were multiplied. Only by looking upwards, and 
watching the slightly paler heaven between the 
hedging tree-tops could he guide the horse at all, 
and in time he found it best to leave the road-finding 
to its instinct, and content himself with urging it 
forward with word and blow. Mark had ridden but 
little, yet he felt no fear and no unnaturalness. 
Once the fact struck him as odd that he was able 
to stick on the unsaddled mount, twisting and turn¬ 
ing in the dark, with such ease. Then he thanked 
God that he had been given the instincts of the 
plainsman who had fathered him. 

On they went, madly. Bushes tore at his legs 
with thorny fingers, low branches whipped them- 


IN THE NIGHT 


335 


selves across his face, and he paid no heed to them. 
Once the Prophet stumbled and nearly flung him, 
but he succeeded in clinging on, gripping hard with 
his powerful knees. Every thud of the hoofs in the 
soft ground was like a blow upon his anguished 
brain, for it measured the nearer and nearer ap¬ 
proach to the highway, with her whom he sought 
still unfound. 

Then the road abruptly ended. The hoof-beats 
rang sharply out on the hard macadam. There 
was the faintest of after-glows in the western sky 
and it enabled Mark to see vaguely down the 
straight highway for a fair distance. No moving 
object was in sight. He had failed. 

He checked the horse, whose heavy breathing and 
heaving sides told how greatly the unaccustomed 
pace had wearied it. Further pursuit was out of 
the question. Even if Means had driven that way, 
there was no hope now of his overtaking him; not 
even a glimmer of fool’s hope. Yea, he had failed 
and his heart seemed dead. Then by the roadside, 
a few hundred yards ahead of him, appeared a 
white gleam as an invisible hand turned a pocket 
flashlight upon something which dimly reflected it 
—the polished side of a motor car. 

With a loud cry, Mark dug his heels into the 
horse’s flanks. His heart had leaped again, and 
was pounding furiously. The Prophet responded, 
but with a marked limp. As they drew nearer, 
the owner of the light turned it inadvertently so that 




336 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


it fell, for an instant, upon his own person, and 
Mark knew that the man was not Means. 

Nevertheless he leaped - from his mount as he 
reached the motionless car, the engine hood of 
which was up, and laid his hand heavily upon the 
stranger’s arm. The man had already turned in 
surprise, and now he showed resentment, but it 
was lost on Mark, who cried, “Friend, hast thou 
seen a big touring car pass this way within the last 
quarter hour—or perhaps a half?” He spoke with 
such excitement that his words ran together and 
were scarcely comprehensible. 

“What’s that?” Bewilderment and irritation 
sharpened the question. Mark repeated his demand. 

“Did I see one. The darned fool that was driv¬ 
ing it went by so close that he pretty nearly took 
my mud-guard off, and sent me into this confounded 
ditch. A fellow who’ll drive at close to sixty, in 
the night and without headlights, is courting sudden 
death—and deserves it. I suppose he was full of 
moonshine, and they say that the Lord takes care of 
drunkards. What do you want him for? Con¬ 
stable?” 

“Nay. But I must overtake him; I must. Oh, 
God help me to overtake him.” 

“You’ve got a fine chance of doing it unless God 
does help,” answered the man, with sarcasm ting¬ 
ing his voice. “Think He’s likely to turn that nag 
into a Pegasus?” 

“Thy jest is ill-timed, for this matter is no jest 



IN THE NIGHT 


337 


to me,” said Mark, sternly. “Moreover, He hath 
already aided me. He hath placed thee here, and 
thou shalt take me to the city.” 

“Indeed! Well, I like your nerve, my Quaker 
friend. Here! What the devil do you think 
you’re doing?” The demand was occasioned by 
the fact that Mark’s hand had seized upon his 
wrist and turned it sharply over, nor did he re¬ 
linquish his vise-like grasp even when the other 
uttered a sharp cry and an oath. 

“I am convincing thee that thou wilt aid me, 
for I have great need of thy help.” The young 
man’s voice sounded so deadly in earnest that the 
car owner looked up with a new expression. 

“Let go.” Mark complied with his order, and 
the man began to rub his wrist gingerly. “Lord, 
I thought you were going to break it. You’re 
certainly as strong as a bull, and unless you’re 
crazy there must be something pretty serious on 
your mind.” 

“Judge for thyself.” Hastily, in brief, dis¬ 
jointed sentences, the Quaker gave him a sketchy 
outline of what had occurred. The listener broke 
in at frequent intervals with exclamations of in¬ 
credulity and growing anger, and finally he in¬ 
terrupted him altogether, with the words, “Man, 
you must be mad. Why, good Lord, a thing like 
this simply couldn’t happen nowadays, except in 
the wildest melodrama or the movies. Couldn’t 
the boy have been mistaken?” 



338 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“Nay. I tell thee that it is true. Thou art 
right that it couldn’t happen, but it has happened. 
It’s like an awful nightmare, but I’m awake. 
Faith! My God, my God.” Giving way for the 
first time, Mark threw himself against the side of 
the car and buried his face on his out-flung arms, 
while his form shook convulsively. The other man 
laid his hand upon the youth’s shoulder, and spoke 
in a subdued, passionate voice. “Son, count on me. 
I’m with you till you find that unspeakable scoun¬ 
drel—or would be if my motor had not gone dead. 
What are you going to do? Is there any house 
near, from which we can telephone for .• . .?” 

At the word “motor,” Mark raised his head, 
and now he broke in with, “Nay, but I am a 
mechanic—the only one within ten miles. What 
seemeth to be the trouble? Here, hold the light 
for me.” His gaze and his fingers fairly flew 
over the intricate mechanism of the twin six cylin¬ 
ders, and in less than a moment he had exclaimed, 
“Ah! I have it! At least I think . . .” 

The driver was already in his seat with hand on 
the ignition switch and foot on the starter. There 
was a whir and then the loud hum of the unthrottled 
racing engine. “She goes! Don’t let anybody try 
to tell me that there has not been an omnipotent 
power helping us to-night. Quick. Get in!” 

Mark did not need the command. He had al¬ 
ready slammed down the hood, bolted it and sprung 
into the other seat. 




IN THE NIGHT 


339 


“What about your horse?” queried the other, 
raising his voice over the roar of the motors. 

“Let him go. He’ll find his way home.” The 
machine leaped forward and the roar became a 
steady, vibrant hum. Before settling himself down 
to endure in stoical silence, the tortured youth 
asked, “Didst thou see Faith . . . the girl, in the 
machine?” 

“Lord, no. I saw nobody. It went past me as 
if my car were standing still. But the top was up 
and the side curtains closed, come to think of it. 
Let’s see, it couldn’t have been more than twenty 
minutes before you arrived. Like enough he 
stopped on that side road to fix them.” 

Mark drew a painfully sharp breath, and beat 
his hands together twice before clasping them hard 
in a physical effort to control himself. 

They spoke scarcely at all while the minutes 
passed, and the miles sped steadily backwards. The 
needle of the speedometer quivered about the figure 
fifty. The big headlights bored a tunnel in the 
darkness and seemed to lay a smooth, white road 
before their spinning wheels. The wind sung a 
high note, sustained without a break. There was 
something almost hypnotic about it all, and Mark’s 
nerves began to relax a little, even though he sat 
in one position, straining forward as if by so doing 
he could increase their pace. He had never ridden 
in the night, before, and if conditions had been 
otherwise the sensation would have delighted him. 




340 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


But now he was barely conscious of his surround¬ 
ings or the machine, and his brain alternated be¬ 
tween thoughts of Faith’s desperate situation, 
wherever she might be, and a peculiar feeling 
that the whole thing was, indeed, merely a night¬ 
mare and that he must wake up, soon, and find it 
so. 

The thought of the girl brought a double an¬ 
guish, for he knew that, although the probabilities 
were that Means would instinctively make for the 
city, he might have turned off on any one of the 
numerous intersecting roads—in which case their’s 
was the wildest of goose chases. 

Once the driver slowed down almost to a stop, 
in order to procure and light a cigar. “It steadies 
my nerves, and I’m going to need ’em all when we 
reach the suburbs and the city itself,” he explained, 
with a grim look. Mark nodded, although even 
the moment’s delay made him rave, inwardly. 

So an hour passed. The country side gave place 
to villages; the villages to suburban towns; the city 
limits were reached and passed with scarcely any 
diminution in their speed. It was Sunday night 
and the traffic in the streets fortunately light, but 
many a pedestrian turned to scowl after them, hav¬ 
ing barely escaped the flying car. At length they 
reached a busier thoroughfare and were, perforce, 
obliged to drive more moderately, although the 
owner kept one hand on the steering wheel and the 
other on the horn. 



IN THE NIGHT 


341 


“Whew!” he ejaculated. “Some driving, if I 
did do it. I hope to heaven that I may never have 
to duplicate it for fifty miles.” 

“Amen,” Mark responded. 

“What are we going to do, now. You say 
that fellow’s name is Robert Means. We can prob¬ 
ably find his home address in the directory at any 
drugstore, but I suppose that the best thing for us 
to do is to call on the police.” 

“Nay!” The idea filled Mark with horror. 
Police interference meant newspaper publicity. 
He had glanced over sensational articles of that 
nature in papers left at the smithy by motorists, 
and Faith Franklyn must not be made the center 
of one. 

“But, Good Lord, man, we can’t go alone and 
break into the fellow’s house! Especially on what 
is merely suspicion—no matter how strong. HI go 
a long way with you in seeing this thing through, 
but that’s too far. We’d be arrested.” 

“I do not ask thine aid further, Friend. I do 
not care what happens to me. Let us find the ad¬ 
dress, as thou hast suggested, and if thou wilt 
then drive me to the place I shall be content, and 
everlastingly thy debtor.” 

“But you probably couldn’t get inside—particu¬ 
larly if this fellow Means lives in apartments. He 
certainly wouldn’t open the door for you. If you 
only knew some friend of his. . . .” 

“That’s it! Thou hast struck it. I do know one 



342 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


—the man who suggested that he come to Content/’ 

“Great. Who is it?” 

“A Mr. Durham. He is a professional wrestler 
and men call him ‘the Bull.’ Dost thou know him?” 

“I’ve heard of him. Rather. Do you know 
where he lives?” 

“Yea. He told me that if I was ever in the city I 
might find him at the Central A. A. Little either 
of us thought that I should ever seek him for such 
a purpose.” 

“The Central Athletic Association? That’s on 
this very street and we’re almost there. . . . Yes, 
that’s it just ahead on the left.” 

The machine drew up by the curb within the 
radius of a powerful arc-light. At the same mo¬ 
ment the door of the building opened and two men 
stepped forth, one of unusual bulk, the other slender 
and dapper. Both paused on the steps to light, 
the one a big cigar, the other a cigarette. 

The Bull glanced up and looked directly into 
Mark’s tense face. In his astonishment he dropped 
the cigar entirely, and stood with mouth open. 
Then he sprang forward, exclaiming, “The fightin’ 
Quaker! Well, fer the love uv Mike. What in 
hell are you doin’ here?” 

It seemed to Mark at that instant that the Lord 
had indeed heard and responded to the prayer for 
help which his heart had been repeating like a 
litany all through the long, mad ride. That the Bull 
himself should have appeared so opportunely—he 



IN THE NIGHT 


343 


was obviously just departing from the club—in an¬ 
swer to his petition did not strike him as strange, 
but rather as natural. God moves in mysterious 
ways, and uses all sorts and conditions of men as 
His earthly angels to perform His will. 

The Quaker paused for no introductions or pre¬ 
liminary explanations, but plunged headlong into 
the story of Faith’s abduction. He hurried through 
its salient parts with a headlong rush of words, pay¬ 
ing no attention to the wrestler’s repeated interrup¬ 
tions and oaths. The latter stood beside the car, 
leaning forwards tensely. His huge hands gripped 
the edge of the door and his ugly face worked 
ferociously as he listened. When Mark had panted 
out his conclusion, the Bull broke forth into a string 
of violent profanity and pounded his fists down 
with such force that the machine trembled. 

“God A’mighty, Flash! Did ya hear? Oh, 
the low-lived, drunken cur; and me callin’ him 
‘friend,’ and sendin’ him out there as a sorter joke. 
Joke! Oh, hell!” Tears of rage and grief came 
to his eyes, and he dashed them away like a child. 
“If I catch him ... if I catch him I’ll kill him, 
fer this. So help me, I’ll break him in half. 
I’ll . . .” 

“Get in—both of you,” commanded the car 
owner, tersely. “We’ve wasted too much time, al¬ 
ready. And we’ve got to get the police.’’ 

“Police be damned!” the wrestler exploded, as 
he jerked open the rear door and sent Flash into 




344 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


the tonneau with a mighty shove. “We’ll have 
no bulls on this job . . . leastwise, not yet we 
won’t. If he’s there I’ll handle him. D’yuh 
know where 1438 M-Street is?” 

“Yes. I can find it.” 

“Drive there, then. And knock hell outer any¬ 
thing that gits in your way—don’t stop fer nothin’. 

1438 M- Street! That’s where Mr. Robert V. 

Means, Esquire, has the joint that he calls his 
‘Bachelor quarters.’ ” Heavy sarcasm made his 
voice shake. “I'll bachelor ’em, for him. Oh, 
me and you know the place, don’t we, Flash?” 

The gambler nodded and his ferret eyes gleamed. 
Excitement was the breath of his life, and now 
his one-time hostility towards Mark was forgotten 
in his new-born hatred of the man upon whom he 
had formerly fawned. The Bull’s wrath was in the 
main responsible for this, for his own code of mor¬ 
als might have countenanced Means’ act. He re¬ 
sponded with, “I’ll say we do, the . . .” 

“You bet we know it! Plenty of wild parties 
we’ve had there, but never again. He won’t be 
holdin’ no more celebrations in this burg, I’m tellin’ 
yuh.” 

Nothing could check the wrestler’s excited lo¬ 
quacity. He could not stop talking, to save him, 
and leaned forward in the rear seat rolling his 
sentences out like breakers in a storm, while the 
machine sped up the streets and around sharp cor¬ 
ners almost without slacking speed. Mark ceased 






IN THE NIGHT 


345 


to pay any attention to what he was shouting in 
his ear, until one sentence caught his attention 
and brought him up with every nerve tingling and 
blood pounding through his veins. 

‘‘Bob Means used tuh use dope, too, didn’t he, 
Flash?” 

“Dope is right. Didn’t you never see his fore¬ 
arm?” 

“Well, I thought so. Booze alone never gave 
him them shakes which he sometimes had. The two 
things don’t go together as a rule, but when they 
do . . . good-night! ’Course he was crazy: he 
couldn’t have done a thing like this if he hadn’t ’a 
been—I’ll give him that much credit. But the 
worst is it’s a hundred tuh one that he gave her a 
jab uv the dream stuff tuh keep her quiet. If she 
fainted off when he grabbed her he could ’a done 
it, easy.” 

“Yea,” answered Flash. “A fifth of a grain 
would have kept her quiet enough after it took 
hold—she not being used to it. And like enough he 
tied her up and put her in the back seat with the 
curtains down before she came to.” 

“Sure. The old game—only it aint s’posed tuh 
be played in polite sassiety. Then, if anybody seen 
him gittin’ her out of the car and started to git 
personal, she was his sick sister. / know. The 
low-down crook!” 

Mark was filled with unspeakable horror which 
could have been no greater had he known the truth 




346 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


—how nearly right these men of the sporting world 
were in their surmises. The business blocks with 
their occasional lighted windows were succeeded by 
rows of brick apartment houses more fully illu¬ 
minated, but they made only a vague moving back¬ 
ground for his mental picture of Faith, bound and 
drugged, helpless, and in the complete power of a 
drug-maddened man. It was unthinkable, yet that 
did not prevent him from thinking of it until his 
brain reeled. He passed his hand across his ach¬ 
ing eyes. Nay, it couldn't be real. He, Mark 
Gray, a Quaker from the peaceful village of Con¬ 
tent, in the clutch of such adventure, and Faith 
Franklyn in such fell circumstances! He must 
wake up, soon. 

The Bull called out, excitedly. The man beside 
him put on the brakes and the car came to a grind¬ 
ing halt. 

Mark had closed his eyes for a moment, they 
ached so. Now he opened them, and saw that they 
had stopped against the curbing of a quiet, tree- 
lined street. A row of connecting red brick 
houses, all alike and all four stories high, made 
an unbroken wall along it, save for occasional black 
apertures which marked narrow alleys. One was 
right in front of them. For the most part the 
windows were darkened, for, although it was not 
yet eleven o'clock, it was Sunday night; but here 
and there squares of light appeared, seen through 
lace curtains, and through at least three of them, 



IN THE NIGHT 


347 


wide-open, came the sounds of piano-players in 
conflicting jazz selections. He did not know what 
they were, nor give them conscious thought, but the 
sounds jarred horribly upon his nerves. How 
dared people be so gay, on the First Day night, and 
when tragedy stalked close by? 

All these things Mark took in at a glance. Then 
he leaned suddenly forward, every sinew tense, 
teeth grating, heart bursting. Directly before him, 
in the full glare of their headlights, stood Means’ 
automobile, top up and curtains drawn. He heard 
his companion exclaim, excitedly, “That’s it. 
That’s the very car that passed me,” and the Bull 
answered, “Yep, it’s his, damn him. Come on!” 

The other three went out of the machine first. 
Mark was surprised at his own slowness, but his 
limbs seemed to have turned to lead. Waves of 
alternating heat and cold were passing through his 
body; his throat was dry, his tongue seemed to be 
swollen; his hands worked mechanically. He could 
not think beyond that moment. The nearness of the 
crisis, which he had been so long imagining, para¬ 
lyzed him for the instant. To act, is one thing; to 
know that in sixty seconds, perhaps, you have got 
to act, is another. 

But all that he had to do was to follow, for the 
wrestler was mounting the flight of sandstone 
steps to the; front door, three at a time. The 
others, Mark with them, were at his heels. The 
glass door was flung open, admitting them to a 



348 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 


small, square vestibule. They were faced by still 
another door, forbiddingly closed, and it did not 
yield to the Bull’s mighty shaking of the handle. 
He turned about, and Mark saw that his scowling 
glance was directed along a row of glass-faced 
boxes, with small buttons below them, which lined 
the side wall. 

“Yep. There you are, Mr. Robert Vandervet- 
ter Means!” he exploded, setting his huge thumb 
on one of the buttons. “I remember now. Third 
floor, rear. That’s him.” 

They waited. There was no sound other than 
that of their own audible breathing. Then the 
Bull swore, alike at himself and Means. He ended 
by growling, “I was a fool tuh ring that one, any¬ 
way. What was bitin’ me? He’d be jest delighted 
to open the door. Like hell he would! Here, help 
me push all the buttons in sight.” They obeyed 
and the faint sound of electric bells ringing in the 
down-stairs apartments greeted their ears. But 
another full minute passed and the door remained 
forbiddingly closed. 

Now the enforced delay was driving Mark wild. 
Every second seemed an hour, and immeasurably 
precious. There was an added ringing within his 
own head, and his impatience burst its bounds. 
His soul was praying with terrible intensity, but 
his lips began to repeat each word of the wrestler’s 
steady swearing, for the latter was damning the 




IN THE NIGHT 


349 


sleepers within the house with all the force of his 
profane vocabulary. 

Suddenly he could bear inaction no longer. He 
had no plan, but he turned from the doorway, 
sprang down the steps and then plunged into the 
dark alleyway beside the building, utterly regard¬ 
less of possible obstacles. A dozen strides car¬ 
ried him into a square, high-walled area in the rear 
of the block, a place dimly illuminated by the light 
from a few windows above him. 

“The third floor, rear/’ The Bull’s words beat 
upon his brain. 

He looked up. The shapes of two windows with 
drawn shades were dimly visible, two stories above 
his head, and even as he stared at them, wonder¬ 
ing, a shadowed profile appeared for an instant on 
one of the curtains. It was gone, as quickly, but 
he had seen enough. 

The silhouette, seen in one brief glance, was 
that of the man he sought. 

The sight was like a spark to the dynamo of im¬ 
pulse, Mark waited for nothing. He could 
vaguely make out the form of an iron fire-escape 
which zig-zagged down the wall, to end in a narrow 
skeleton platform on a level with the second floor. 
The steps to cover the remaining distance were 
elevated, balanced out of reach from the ground. 
But Mark had no need of them. A quick run, an 
upward leap, and his hands closed upon the iron 



350 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


bar above him, as it had many a time upon hori¬ 
zontal limbs. An instant later he was over the 
railing and mounting the steps, which rang metal¬ 
lically beneath his feet. Then he was outside the 
window, behind which was Means. And Faith? 



CHAPTER XXX 


JUDGMENT 

“Is every darned soul in this joint dead —and 
buried?” 

The wrestler was ready to explode, and batter 
the door in, before they heard the clicking of the 
latch, electrically released by some tenant aroused 
from slumber and tired of the continued ringing. 
Mark’s departure had passed unnoticed by the 
others, in their excitement, and now the three ran 
into the hallway and stormed up the two flights of 
winding stairs, Durham in the lead. An auto¬ 
matic elevator had stood invitingly waiting but he 
would have none of it—if he saw it at all, indeed. 
On reaching the third floor the Bull paused uncer¬ 
tainly, for they were faced with three doors all ex¬ 
actly alike, and unmarked. Flash and the drivei 
of the automobile were pressing him close, asking 
questions and making suggestions, and he turned 
on them with a savage oath. 

It was almost lost in the sound which that same 
instant came from behind the door on their right— 
a crashing and shivering of glass, and a muffled cry 
in a woman’s voice. 

For a second there was silence. Then the Bull 

35i 


352 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


cried, “Say. Whe . . . where’s Mark?” The 
other two looked at one another in surprise and con¬ 
sternation, but they did not answer, and the wrestler 
turned again to give the door handle a terrific shak¬ 
ing without result. Then he stepped back a pace 
and they saw his mighty shoulders lift until his 
neck entirely disappeared, and his bulging arms 
lock across his breast. 

“Git outer my way!” 

With a loud “Uh!” the Bull charged. One 
shoulder struck the top panel of the door and 
crashed straight through it. He drew back for a 
second lunge, but—with the quickness of a cat— 
Flash jumped in front of him and thrust his slender 
arm through the breach. His seeking fingers found 
the door-knob on the inside, and turned it. The 
door flew open, and the three men jumped into the 
room. It was in darkness, but the bedroom be¬ 
yond was brightly lighted. Framed in the door¬ 
way thereto they beheld a startling picture. 

On one side, seated in a posture of weakness in 
a big arm-chair, and loosely wrapped in a motor 
rug, was the girl—Faith Franklyn. Her counte¬ 
nance was deathly pale, even to the parted lips; loose 
strands of her hair swept across her forehead, and 
a thick coil of it rested on the nape of her neck; 
her eyes were very large and dark, and their un¬ 
evenly distended pupils held an unnatural look. 
Dazed terror was written upon her face, but she 
was not looking towards them. 



JUDGMENT 


353 


Opposite her, with his back to them, was Means. 
They could not see his face, and there was no need, 
for his very attitude showed mortal fear. 

In the center of the picture stood Mark Gray, his 
feet amid the strewn glass from the broken window- 
pane. He, too, was motionless, leaning back against 
the sill, but with his head and shoulders thrust 
forward as though he were about to spring. His 
arms were partly bent, with fingers tense and curved 
like huge talons. Blood dripped steadily from a 
deep gash across the knuckles of his right hand, 
and was flowing from a cut on his cheek. It added 
to the expression of terrible intent upon his drawn 
countenance. 

There was a bare instant during which no one 
moved a muscle, and, to the stranger, the effect was 
like a gruesomely vivid painting depicting the most 
primal of human passions. And two of the motion¬ 
less figures therein were Quakers! 

Then Mark’s jaw moved, with an audible grating 
noise. It was a little thing, but sufficient. Means 
cried out in craven fear, wheeled, and sprang for the 
doorway. His face was ashen and working hor¬ 
ribly. He could not have heard the commotion in 
the other room, for when he caught sight of the 
Bull’s massive, menacing form blocking his escape 
his jaw dropped, and he stopped, whispering, “Oh, 
my God!” 

The cornered rat! Lips drawn back from his 
teeth, he suddenly turned again and sprang at Mark. 




354 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


The Quaker met his terror-bred attack by stepping 
forward and crouching. His left shoulder caught 
his antagonist in the pit of the stomach; simultan¬ 
eously he seized one of his wrists with his right 
hand and thrust his left arm between his legs. He 
straightened up, and flung Means over his head, 
to fall with a thud and lie, quivering, upon the 
floor. 

“By the gods, Bull, did you see it? Did you 
see it?” shrilled Flash, his voice almost out of con¬ 
trol through excitement. “You taught him that 
trick.” 

The gambler’s eyes were gleaming with the fierce 
light of a wolf in at the kill, and he would have 
dodged under the wrestler’s outstretched arm if 
the other had not flung him back. 

“Keep out uv this, Flash,” growled Durham. 
“The boy don’t need no help from you. Let him 
finish the job.” 

Mark had swung about and was standing astride 
the fallen man. There was another frozen instant, 
ended by the sound of a deep sigh from Faith. 
Her head had dropped forward and she fell in a 
swoon over the arm of the chair. Mark forgot 
everything else, and sprang to gather her in his 
arms. The three watchers also hurried forward 
to help, and the owner of the car, which had brought 
them there—in time—quietly took command of the 
situation and directed that the girl be laid flat upon 
the bed. “I’m married,” he said, “and seeing a 





JUDGMENT 


355 


woman faint is nothing new for me. One of you 
see if you can get some water.” 

Flash departed on a run for the kitchenette, while 
Mark knelt by the bedside and began to chafe Faith’s 
icy hands, with hands which were nearly as cold. 
He tried to speak, to ask if she were dead, but all 
the sound which came was a gasp like a dry sob. 

There was a slight noise from the other side of 
the room, and the Bull, who had been standing in 
speechless distress beside Mark, turned in time to 
catch sight of Means clinging to the window sill 
and on the point of swinging one leg over it. 

“No yuh don’t, you,” the wrestler bellowed, 
leaping across the floor and seizing the other by 
his wrist. He twisted the arm sharply back and 
up between his shoulder blades, and Means shrieked 
aloud in agony. “Yuh don’t go sneakin’ away 
from what’s cornin’ to yuh, Mr. Robert Means. 
Not much yuh don’t.” 

His victim gave another anguished cry. The 
torture caused the sweat to start from his every 
pore, and he gasped out, “Don’t! For God’s sake, 
Bull, you’re breaking my arm.” 

“I’d be breakin’ your worthless neck, if I wasn’t 
savin’ it fer him tuh twist,” grunted the wrestler, 
pointing to Mark. 

The friendly stranger had loosened Faith’s simple 
dress and liberally sprinkled her face with the water 
which Flash had brought. She drew a choking 
breath, slowly opened her eyes with a more natural 



356 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


light in them, and looked up into Mark’s anxious 
face. The faintest suggestion of a smile touched 
her lips, and they whispered his name. 

“Faith. Faith, my dear one! Thou art all 
right now?” he begged. 

“Yea, I ... I feel strange and weak, but I am 
all right except . . . except a little dizzy. If I 
might have a drink of cold water. . . .” 

Supported by his arm, she sat up and leaned 
against his shoulder, resting her head back upon 
it. Flash was already on his way back to the 
kitchenette. Faith had closed her eyes for an 
instant. Now she reopened them and looked un¬ 
certainly about the room. An expression of terror 
crept into her face, followed by a hot flush of out¬ 
raged modesty as she glanced down at herself and 
became conscious of her disarray in the presence of 
men, and strangers. 

“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, and turned to bury 
her face against his breast. 

“There, there, my dear one. It is over, now. 
Thou art safe: what else matters.” He comforted 
her as one would a child. 

“But it is true—all true, then?” Faith’s tear¬ 
ful voice came in muffled tones. She had broken 
down at last and was trembling, and clinging fast 
to him. “I had begun to believe that it was all 
an awful dream, and it is still hazy—I can’t be sure 
of it. What happened? I remember that he . . . 
caught hold of me, and threw me in his automobile. 



357 


_ JUDGMENT 

Yea, that was it. He started to drive away ... he 
was carrying me away from my home. I tried to 
jump, but he held my wrist.” Mark looked down 
and saw that there was a blue discoloration upon 
it, but, before he could speak his wrathful thoughts, 
she sobbed on, “Then ... I forget. Did I faint? 
Yea, that must have been it. When I remember 
again it was almost dark and I couldn’t move . . . 
I think that I was all wrapped up in something, and 
... my arm hurt. I tried to get up ... to throw 
myself out . . . but I couldn’t and . . . and then. 

. . . Why, I scarcely remember. I knew where I 
was . . . that the machine was speeding terribly 
. . . but ... I hardly seemed to care. I can’t ex¬ 
plain it, Mark. What was the matter with me?” 

“Thou wert dazed—with fright. That is all, 
Faith,” he responded, telling the lie bravely. She 
must never know the truth. 

She sighed, and moved in his arms. “At last we 
stopped. The man took me out in his arms, and 
brought me here. Then . . . then thou earnest, 
Mark. Oh, how couldst thou have known? Verily 
God must have sent thee to me. Where . . . where 
are we? And these other men? Who ... ?” 

“Never mind, now, dear heart. Do not try to 
talk or understand further, for the present. It is 
enough that the bad dream is ended, and soon thou 
wilt be back in thine own home in Content.” 

His words, meant to be comforting, started a 
new idea in her shaken mind, and she started. 





358 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


“ ‘Content’ ? Nay, how can I return there, after 
this? How could I, Mark?” 

‘‘Of course thou canst! Why, thou hast done 
no wrong. Thy neighbors will but love thee the 
more, even as I do—though I should have said that 
was impossible. But it matters not. If thou 
wishest, we two can go away, taking David and 
little Hope, and be together always.” 

Faith’s arms drew close about his neck and he 
pressed his lips into the hollow of her’s. 

‘‘There is another room,” she whispered, so softly 
that he could barely hear her. ‘‘Please take me into 
it. I am strong again, and must arrange my . . , 
mine apparel and hair.” 

Mark lifted her from the bed, and carried her 
into the living-room, preceded by the ubiquitous 
Flash whose ready hand switched on the electric 
lights. 

“Now leave me, please,” she said. “I shall be 
ready in a moment.” 

The two men went back, and Mark closed the 
door behind him. 

As he entered the bedroom again, the Bull turned 
towards him with an ugly grin. 

“Here’s a present for you, Mark, an’ I wish 
yuh joy with it,” he announced, spinning Means 
about and shoving him so violently that he would 
have pitched headlong to the floor, if Mark had not 
sprung forward and caught him by both shoulders. 




JUDGMENT 


359 


The man slumped in his grasp, his knees doubling 
under him. The Quaker held him up, at arms 
length, and regarded him with a look which was 
fixed and inscrutable, but the very iciness of it was 
more menacing than a blazing passion would have 
been. 

Means had listened to the woman’s incoherent 
story. He knew that the man who held him helpless 
in a grip like iron was thinking of it, and her. A 
faint shudder ran through his whole frame and he 
tore his eyes from Mark’s and looked wildly about 
the room. Would the other three men allow him to 
be killed, in cold blood? Each face wore a different 
expression, but sympathy was not in any of 
them. 

The silence! He could not stand it any longer. 
Means writhed madly in that vise-like grasp, and 
cried aloud. “My God! Don’t look at me like 
that, Gray. I was mad, crazy, I tell you. Drink 
and drug crazy. Why, you know that yourself. 
Tell me you do?” 

“Yea, thou wert mad—but men kill mad dogs.” 
Mark’s speech was as cool, as impersonal as a 
judge’s, and his words were like a judgment. They 
fitted in with Means’ terror-laden thoughts, and tore 
down the final barrier to his control. He groveled 
before his captor, uttering almost incoherent cries 
for mercy. “No, not that! Not that! You . . . 
you couldn’t kill me, Gray. Why, you’re a Quaker. 
You couldn’t kill me,” he whined, through chatter- 




360 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


ing teeth. “I ... I ... I didn’t injure her. I 
didn’t mean to. God, man, don’t look at me like 
that. Don’t. Don’t! I swear it. The air brought 
me back to my senses. Do you hear? To my 
senses. I was going to send her home ... in the 
morning. I couldn’t to-night. Why, how could I ? 
I didn’t injure her. God is my witness that I did 
not.” Over and over again he said it. 

“I know that thou didst not, but thou art late 
in calling on the Lord.” 

The expression of strained intentness deepened 
upon the faces of the onlookers. This calm bait¬ 
ing by the Quaker was not what they had looked for, 
and it was becoming somewhat unbearable, even to 
them. The stranger took a step forward, ready to 
interpose if Mark started to carry out the threat 
contained in his first sentence. The same thought 
was now in the mind of the wrestler, as well. A 
moment before he would have rejoiced to see Mark 
beat the abductor almost to a pulp, but killing, im¬ 
personally, was murder. 

Still Mark stood in the same position. He was 
outwardly like a thing of stone, but his thoughts 
were in a turmoil and they would not codrdi- 
nate. 

“He says he didn’t hurt her,” began the Bull, 
uneasily. “Yuh can’t do fer a guy in cold blood, 
but I’ll stand for your beatin’ him up . . . some. 
He’s got that cornin’ to him, before yuh turn him 
over to the cops.” 




JUDGMENT 


361 


Mark abruptly dropped his arms and turned with 
a gesture of decision. “I shall do neither,” he an¬ 
nounced. 

“What’s that? You’re goin’ to let him go, scott 
free?” demanded Durham in amazement, and he 
stepped forward with fist raised as though himself 
to punish Means. 

“Yea. But not yet. First I shall give him the 
chance to clear his conscience of at least one of his 
sins which resteth upon it, and see to it that he 
taketh that chance. Stay there, while I think for a 
moment.” Simultaneously with the order he thrust 
Means into the chair which had held Faith. Flash 
sprang beside him there, showing his yellow teeth 
like a wolf-dog on guard. 

“What is the hour, friend?” Mark abruptly de¬ 
manded of his new companion. 

The man consulted his watch, and answered. 
“Quarter past eleven.” 

“I fear that I have kept thee long away from thy 
family, and that they will be worried over thine ab¬ 
sence,” remarked the Quaker, with an apologetic lit¬ 
tle smile. “And I know not how to thank thee for 
thine aid. To-night thou hast verily been God’s 
agent, perhaps in saving three lives, for had I not 
arrived when I did . . . Nay, that is not to be 
thought of, now. I cannot reward thee, but as¬ 
suredly He will, in some manner.” 

“Forget it, old man,” responded the other, sud¬ 
denly embarrassed. “The thought that I was able 



362 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


to help is enough for me. Thank God that I hap¬ 
pened to be where I was. That’s all I say.” 

“Amen to that.” Mark held out his hand and 
gripped the other’s hard. “I thank you, also, friends 
Durham and Flash. You too were sent by heaven.”. 
Mark turned and stretched out a hand to each. 

“Hell, we ain’t done nothin’,” responded the Bull, 
blinking a little. “The thing I want tuh know is 
what you’re goin’ tuh do with this . . .” To 
cover his confusion he turned and kicked the leg of 
the chair in which Means was slumped. 

“Wait. I have something to tell thee that thou 
hast not yet heard about,” answered the other, and 
he evenly recounted the story of the criminal charge 
which was hanging over his head, and what had 
preceded it, while the Bull’s anger rekindled and 
his huge hands worked. Before Mark had finished 
speaking, however, Faith had reappeared in the 
doorway, her hair and dress neatly arranged. Her 
presence put a check on the listeners’ tongues. 

“For his own soul’s sake, as well as for my hon¬ 
or’s, the man must return with me to the county 
court, to-morrow. He hath sinned and he must 
confess that sin. Then he will be free to depart, 
and I warn him that he will be wise to do so, and 
that quickly.” For a moment Mark’s voice lost 
its evenness and rang out like steel. 

“Second that motion,” exploded the Bull, turn¬ 
ing to glare at Means. “But say, how was yuh 
planning tuh get him there?” 



JUDGMENT 


363 


“As he came. He shall drive himself and us 
back in his motor car, starting as soon as we have 
rested a little, and perhaps partaken of a little food/’ 

“I won’t: I won’t go back. Wild horses couldn’t 
drag me,” cried Means, springing up. There was 
the vision of a lynching rope in his mind’s eye. 

“Maybe wild horses couldn’t, but I can.” The 
Bull’s thundering voice, and his leap at Means 
brought a cry of terror from both Faith and the 
man. Durham seized his wrist in a savage grip 
again, and sent him back into the seat. “I can and 
will, for I’m goin’ along on the front seat with yuh, 
tuh see that yuh come through, clean, an’ act pretty 
doin’ it. Get me?” 

“Count me in on that,” grinned Flash, envision¬ 
ing a new sensation. 

“I’ll count you out. There’s just room fer me 
and him in front, and your company ain’t goin’ tuh 
be needed in the rear seat, I’m tellin’ yuh. Friend 
Mark don’t require no help. No, sir. You may be 
my manager, but I’m managin’ this bout, and what 
I ses, goes.” 

The girl flushed, but she gave the wrestler a look 
of gratitude, as she stepped hesitatingly forward 
to thank them all with a voice which was low and 
sweet, with the sound of tears in it. And when 
her firm, small hand was lost in the Bull’s diffident 
clasp there sprang up between them, full grown, 
as strange a friendship as ever was formed, but one 
which would certainly last through life. 



364 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Then the stranger took his leave, to return home 
with a story which his wife could never entirely be¬ 
lieve, which was not at all strange. He scarcely 
could, himself, on the morrow. 

“Now,” remarked the wrestler, “I’m runnin’ 
things fer the time bein’. Is there a telephone any¬ 
where in that jumpin’ off place you folks call 
home?” 

“Yea, one,” Mark responded. “In the store of 
Friend Dyer Dexter—thou knowest him.” 

“I’ll say I do.” The Bull grinned. “It ain’t 
likely that he’s there, at close to midnight on Sun¬ 
day, but while you three are out I’ll take a chance 
that I can get the good news over the wire, so that 
your folks can quit worryin’ their heads off—the 
which they’re doin’ jest about now.” 

“Oh, if thou couldst, Mr. Durham,” exclaimed 
Faith, clasping her hands. Her cheeks were wet 
with tears again as she thought of Hope and David. 
Mark added the surprised interrogation, “While 
we’re out?” 

“Sure. That’s what I said. I’m figgerin’ on 
playing jailer fer . . . fer this, fer the next hour 
or two. But you’re goin’ to eat, an’ eat hearty. 
That’s the job of Flash, here—tuh see that yuh do. 
Flash, you take ’em to the Palace Oyster House. It’s 
near, open day and night, and they claims tuh have 
the best fried oysters in Philly. Make each of ’em 
eat a bushel, if yuh have tuh use force. Blow. 
Git out, and don’t come back until they’re fed up. 



JUDGMENT 


365 


We ain’t a-goin’ tuh start fer the country until most 
daylight, anyway, so’s tuh git there jest in time fer 
the final act. I dote on sensations—as the old maid 
said.” 

A half hour later the many mirrors in the famous 
old Oyster House reflected, and the gilt-framed pic¬ 
tures looked down upon, the strangest group of 
midnight diners which had ever sat at one of the 
round, polished tables—Flash, the gambler, and the 
Quaker youth and maiden. Another half hour later 
the three arose and passed out into the calm night. 
As they mounted the steps to the street Flash said, 
with a queer note of apology in his voice, “Er . . . 
by the way Miss . . . Miss Franklyn ... I ... I 
guess the Bull sort of forgot what kind of pictures 
there was on the walls at the palace. Anyhow, I 
did . . . and . . . well . . .” 

“Please. Do not apologize, Friend Rash. I 
. . . I had an eye single to the oysters and . . . 
and they were very good, although I had never eaten 
any, before.” And Faith had made another last¬ 
ing friend. 

At length the Bull yielded to Mark’s importun- 
ings that they start for home, and his insistence that 
they had rested long enough. He and Faith had 
been sitting for two hours in the living-room of 
Means’ apartment, the victims of a sudden, strange 
reserve which had kept them almost silent, although 



866 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


heart spoke to heart through the physical contact of 
their clasped hands. 

The car was standing waiting for them, and, after 
they had parted from Flash, the Bull, with a final 
word of warning, placed Means at the wheel with 
his own powerful hand gripping his right wrist, and 
Mark lifted Faith in the back seat and drew her 
within the circle of his protecting arm. They 
moved off down the deserted street. 

Through the windows in the side curtains Faith 
could see the calm stars over the tall, darkened 
buildings, shining peacefully, far removed from the 
petty loves and hatreds of the little world. The 
sight of them bred a new peace within her own 
troubled heart. There God dwelt, but not there 
alone. He had been very close to her that night, 
making even her His humble servant in bringing 
about Mark’s vindication and his greatest conquest 
over self. 

They left the city behind. The shadowed fields 
appeared on either side of the straight road. For 
the while no longer a Quaker girl, consciously hold¬ 
ing her natural impulses in check lest they lead to 
evil or the appearance of it, but just a woman, weary 
of body, nervously pulled down by what she had 
endured, Faith turned and snuggled closer to the 
man—her chosen mate. He folded both arms about 
her, and laid his head gently on her smooth, thick 
hair, whispering such words as a man would speak 
to a maid in such a case. 



JUDGMENT 


367 


So they rode back through the night, while the 
stars paled and the shadows lifted to reveal a new 
dawn. 

And thus the writer of romantic fiction would 
leave them, for the reader’s imagination could be 
relied upon to supply the ending. But the con¬ 
scientious chronicler of events has no right to omit 
the last chapter, in which the snarled skein is finally 
all untangled so that the Fates may begin anew 
their weaving. Besides, it would be cheating the 
Bull of the dramatic climax which he had planned 
for the romance of his two friends. 




CHAPTER XXXI 


THE LAST CHAPTER 

(WHICH THE READER IS AT LIBERTY TO omit) 

It verily seemed that almost every grown person 
dwelling in Content, who could by any possibility 
get away from his or her duties, and whose legs 
were strong enough to carry him or her five miles, 
or who owned a horse-drawn conveyance or could 
find place in one, had crowded into the little court 
room at the County seat, well before nine o’clock 
that morning. The surprise shown by some that 
certain other ones were there, and the explanations 
and reasons given by neighbor to neighbor for his 
presence at the trial of Mark Gray for assault with 
a dangerous weapon—the charge of attempt to mur¬ 
der had been dropped—indicated that human nature 
and Quaker nature are, after all, one and the same 
thing under the skin. 

There were certain notable absentees from the 
gathering, however—the accused and his accuser; 
John Gray and Sister Patience; Friends Dyer Dex¬ 
ter and Daniel Goodbody—and especially Sister 
Faith Franklyn. The girl’s absence provoked no 
little comment, and the eager waiters were about 

equally divided. Part maintained that she would 

368 


THE LAST CHAPTER 


369 


show good sense and commendable self restraint 
by staying away, and part insisting that it was her 
Christian duty to be present, and that it would be 
positively inhuman to her to fail to give Mark the 
sustaining comfort of her presence. 

Perhaps she would yet arrive, perhaps she would 
not— but where were the others ? Strange that they 
were not there. The hour for the trial had already 
arrived; the minute hand on the big wall time 
piece was well started on its circuitous journey to¬ 
wards ten o’clock. They would have thought it 
more astonishing, still, if they had known that half 
of the missing ones were actually within a few feet 
of them, just on the inner side of the door marked 
“private,” near the Judge’s bench, and that the 
principals in the case were in company some miles 
distant, at that moment repairing a blown-out tire. 
More than an hour before, the presiding Justice 
had placed his retiring room at the disposal of the 
constable from Content, who had arrived with a 
strange story and a scarcely less strange company— 
John Gray, Sister Patience, Friend Dyer Dexter, 
David and Hope Franklyn . . . and Jeremiah 
Jones. 

As in most small places, gossip ordinarily spread 
like wildfire in the village of Content. But a fire 
has to be given a start, either by accident or intent, 
and the story of Faith’s tragic disappearance had 
been locked within the hearts of the few men, 



370 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


women, and children who were now gathered 
together, anxiously waiting in the anteroom. 

Dyer Dexter had seen to that. The tragedy which 
touched him so nearly had rudely torn away his pet¬ 
tiness and he stood forth revealed a Man. He had 
taken charge of the situation, unopposed, for when 
John Gray had heard David’s sobbing repetition of 
his story, he had been too shaken to do ought but 
pray. It was Dexter who sent one of his half- 
grown daughters for the almost frantic little Hope, 
and laid upon all of his household a command of 
the strictest silence—to disobey which was unthink¬ 
able. It was he who had sought and found the 
missing Jeremiah communing with a whiskey bottle 
in his barn loft, and almost frightened the last of his 
little wit out of him with his thundering denuncia¬ 
tions and the charge that he, alone, was to blame for 
what had happened. Jeremiah would never drink 
again. It was he who had brought the constable 
from his home and taken him to the Grays’ there to 
comfort the inconsolable ones as best he could. It 
was he who had impressed upon them all the tremen¬ 
dous need of keeping the matter secret, so that 
Faith's fair name might remain unspotted by the 
mire of gossip, in case the worst should not happen. 
The God, to whom they all prayed, might yet in¬ 
tercede in her behalf and—through Mark—perform 
a miracle. It was he who then left them and went 
alone to his empty store, to sit in darkness, material 
and spiritual, waiting, waiting, waiting, on the slim 




THE LAST CHAPTER 371 


chance that a miracle might be performed, and Mark 
think of the telephone. Hour after hour he sat 
thus, being made over and born anew through the 
spirit of sacrifice, suffering the agonies of deliver¬ 
ance. Then, at midnight, the telephone bell had 
rung loudly, and a strange messenger had given him 
a strange message, but one laden with great joy. 
And it was he who had driven John Gray and Sis¬ 
ter Patience, Friend Daniel Goodbody, David, Hope, 
and Jeremiah to the county seat at the break of day, 
and told the judge what had occurred—and was to 
occur. 

“It is passing strange, is it not—their absence, 
especially that of Friend Mark Gray?” whispered 
one of the waiting spectators. 

“Nay, I think it not strange at all,” answered an¬ 
other, who had never liked the youth. “Friend 
Daniel should never have set him free on parole. 
Doubtless he, fearing a verdict of ‘guilty/ hath 
jumped his bail and fled. That would also account 
for the absence of the others who know the fact, 
and . , 

He was interrupted by the sound of a motor car 
drawing up before the open door of the little Court 
House. The curious waiters within craned their 
necks, and caught sight of .Robert Means, the ac¬ 
cuser, at the wheel, and that other stranger—the 
man of violence and a profane tongue—seated be¬ 
side him. Excitement blossomed forth afresh. 




372 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


Word of the long anticipated arrival of the man 
who had charged their neighbor with a deadly 
crime was tossed in loud whispers from lip to lip. 

A man in ordinary clothes, but distinguished as 
a deputy-sheriff by the shining badge of authority 
which he wore upon his vest—it was warm and he 
was coatless—hurried out, spoke to the wrestler, 
or rather was spoken to by him, and returned to 
move down the center aisle at almost a jog¬ 
trot. He disappeared within the portal marked, 
“private.” Again there was a general turning 
of heads and peering towards the main door. 

And then the dwellers in Content were treated 
to the greatest sensation in all their placid lives! 

Up the three steps and through the crowded court¬ 
room walked Robert Vandervetter Means; but he 
did not come alone, nor walk as one strong in the 
righteousness of his cause, an injured party, a de¬ 
fender of law and order. Nor was he accompanied 
by his counsel. That worthy gentleman had lost 
the early train and was at that moment pacing the 
station platform in Philadelphia, glancing at his 
watch every two minutes and fretting and fuming 
deliciously. Nay, the accuser might himself have 
well been the criminal. His apparel was dusty 
and awry—entirely lacking in the perfect set and 
immaculate appearance which had often been 
laughed at, and secretly envied by the youths of the 
Quaker village. His aristocratic countenance was 
smutched with dirt, dark with the shadow of a 



THE LAST CHAPTER 


373 


coming beard, discolored with bruises, and the seat 
of a sullen, furtive expression. 

But that was only the beginning—the cause of 
the first and least of several audible gasps of amaze¬ 
ment on the part of the onlookers. 

Close beside him, with his immense fingers grip¬ 
ping Means’ coat-sleeve in a policeman’s hold, 
walked the Bull—a queerly shaped giant whose 
cannon-ball head seemed to rest in the hollow be¬ 
tween his bulging shoulders, and whose ugly fea¬ 
tures wore an expression of intense ferocity. A 
few of them had seen him before, and now started 
to recount the episode in which he and Friend 
Mark Gray had figured earlier in the month, only to 
have their whisperings abruptly broken off by a 
third, and still more audible gasp. 

For, a few steps behind this ill-assorted pair, 
came Mark Gray himself, likewise dusty and di¬ 
sheveled, very stern and pale, and with an ugly 
cut, barely closed, across his right cheek from nose 
to ear. His arm was supportingly about the waist 
of a woman, bare-headed and very pale, who never¬ 
theless walked bravely forward, with eyes un¬ 
swerving and lips tightly compressed. 

And that girl was Sister Faith Franklyn! 

The door through which the officer had passed 
now opened again. He appeared, beckoning, and 
the four new arrivals passed out of sight within the 
portal which was closed behind them, but not be¬ 
fore those nearest it had caught a fleeting glimpse 



374 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


of the group within the room, and seen David and 
little Hope run forward to fling themselves, weep¬ 
ing, into Faith’s loving arms. 

Then how tongues flew; what a multitude of 
questions were asked to pass unanswered; what a 
host of surmises were put forth and seized upon as 
reasonable explanations or rejected as absurdities! 
The buzz of many voices, subdued, yet thrilling with 
excitement, continued as the moments passed. A 
sudden hush fell as the door reopened. One might 
have heard a pin fall, but instead heard the heavy, 
pompous tread of the justice, whose boots 
squeaked, as he came out of the room marked 
“private,” and mounted to his bench. The dep¬ 
uty-sheriff, who was also the clerk, first pre¬ 
ceded and then followed him, calling out loudly, 
“Everybody stand up. Take off your hat, you!” 
This to a Quaker late-comer, who had just arrived, 
breathless. 

“Sit down!” 

The spectators resumed their places and began 
their whispering again, to cease abruptly as the 
presiding justice raised his gavel and brought it 
down on the desk with an authoritative bang. For 
the moment he was the central figure in a situation 
full of dramatic possibilities, and the fact was not 
displeasing to him. Judges, too, are human. The 
officer uttered the formal “Oyez,” and then turned 
clerk again to announce, loudly, “First case on the 
docket, State vs. Mark Gray.” 



THE LAST CHAPTER 


375 


He stepped down from his lowly platform and, 
opening the door to the anteroom, beckoned. 
There was a rustle and a sound like a deep sigh 
throughout the court-room. The Bull strode forth, 
still clutching Robert Means by the sleeve. Mark 
followed, closing the door behind him. 

“Your Honor,” announced Durham, “This guy 
has somethin’ tuh say. Say it!” he commanded in 
a resounding whisper to Means. 

The accuser hesitated, swallowing hard. 

“Say it!” 

“I . . . Your Honor ... I ... I made a mis¬ 
take. The . . .” 

“Mistake, nothin’. Come through, clean. Git 
me?” His fingers shifted their grip to the man’s 
arm, and he uttered an involuntary cry. The 
perspiration started from his pale forehead. 

“I ... I desire to retract my charge 
against . . . against Gray,” whispered Means, 
hoarsely. 

“Why? Tell the judge why, you . . . tell ’em 
all why!” 

“It ... it was false.” 

“Right! But how false? Tell’em. You know!” 

“As false as ... as hell!” 

“Right!” As he spoke the word, the wrestler 
swung his captive sharply about so that he faced 
the dwellers of Content who filled the court room. 
The babel of excited voices burst forth again, 
punctuated but not checked by the banging of the 




376 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


judge’s gavel. A broad grin spread over the face 
of Mr. Durham. He had scored, scored heavily, 
in a new role. The countenance of the presiding 
justice was set in angry lines, but a close observer 
might have caught a contradictory twinkle in his 
eyes. The majesty of the law was being outraged 
—but he was human, and enjoying the situation 
immensely. The deputy-sheriff, however, was 
younger and less tolerant. He shouted, “Silence! 
Silence, or I’ll clear the court room.” 

The threat had the desired effect. Nobody 
wanted to be deprived of what might follow. The 
tumult subsided almost at once. 

“Case dismissed. Prisoner discharged,” an¬ 
nounced the judge, and then addressed Mark with 
the words, “Do you wish to make a complaint 
against this man Means, Mr. Gray?” 

Mark started and grew red and white by 
turns. “Friend . . . Sir . . . Your honor—” 
finally prompted thereto by the Bull’s stage 
whisper—“I do not think that I understand 
thee.” 

“I mean, do you wish to prefer charges against 
him for false arrest?” 

“Nay, I thank thee. I am well content to let 
him go.” 

Means lifted his head with a jerk, and a look of 
immense relief passed over his drawn face. One of 
physical agony followed it, as the wrestler tightened 
the clutch on his arm, saying, in a voice which 




THE LAST CHAPTER 377 

poured forth from the vials of righteous wrath, 
“Say thank you, yuh damned bla’guard. Say 
thank you to a Christian gentleman, who’s let- 
tin’ you off with nothin’ but a first-class scare. 
Personally, it- makes me pretty near sick, and I’m 
tellin’ yuh this. If I ever run intuh yuh again, 
I’m likely tuh go tuh the electric chair fer what I 
do tuh yuh. Now, git out!” 

Six strides, and he had dragged Means to the 
open door and sent him headlong down the steps 
with a shove so powerful that he went as though 
shot from a catapult. The excitement within the 
room—temporarily checked—burst out again, un¬ 
affected by the pounding of the judge’s gavel 
and the deputy-sheriff’s shouts of “Order! 
Order!” 

Mr. Durham turned and strode back to the bench. 
Above all the clamor his great voice boomed out, 
“I beg Your Honor’s pardon. But it jest had tuh 
be did.” 

A violent attack of coughing on the part of the 
justice alike prevented him from declaring that the 
man was in contempt of court—as was quite obvi¬ 
ously the case—and covered his exit with Mark 
through the door marked “private.” 

Quieter at last, but with their curiosity at fever 
pitch, the other dwellers in Content waited for the 
epilogue of the drama. But they waited in vain. 
The curtain was not lifted again—that is to say, the 



378 MARK GRAY S HERITAGE 

door was not reopened—for the gathering within 
the anteroom had made a hasty departure by a 
side exit, and all, crowded into Friend Dyer Dex¬ 
ter’s carry-all, were well on the homeward road 
long before the first of their disappointed neigh¬ 
bors was moved to leave the court room. 

They had not gone, however, before the final act 
had really taken place within that sanctum sanc¬ 
torum. 

When Mark had entered, Faith had gone directly 
to him without thought of the many witnesses 
about. She had laid both her hands upon his 
shoulders and spoken in a low, sweet voice. “Mark 
Gray, thou art free. Thou hast conquered.” 

“Yea.” Suddenly he bent his head and clasped 
his hands, while the old look of dejection took 
possession of his countenance. 

“Is that all that thou hast to say to me, now?” 

“Oh, what else can I say, Faith Franklyn?” 

“Thou canst now honorably ask me to ... to 
be thy wife.” Barely whispered. 

“Nay, that I cannot do, honorably. The heritage 
of my blood . . .” 

“Hath enabled thee to save me, thrice, Mark 
Gray. Thank God for it.” 

“Perhaps. I do not know. But what is past, is 
past. Now I am thinking of the future . . . mine 
own and . . . and the generations of my blood. 
My heritage of passion might become in part the 
heritage of my children. How can I ever hope to 




THE LAST CHAPTER 


379 


marry, knowing that, and not knowing whether or 
not the curse of blood would ever be removed, or 
when it might burst forth again? Nay, it would 
not be fair to thee, though I need not tell thee that 
I love thee—alike as a Friend, and as the man of 
impulse which is the real me. And that I always 
shall love thee.” 

“Thou hast already proved that a seeming curse 
may be of verity a blessing, Mark Gray. There is 
one thing stronger than the inheritance of the 
blood.” 

“What?” 

“Love, Mark Gray. Especially the love of God, 
who directeth the wills of men, if they wilt but 
seek his ready guidance.” 

He groaned and covered his face with his hands. 
Faith let her arms drop to her sides, as though in 
defeat. 

“I understand, Mark,” she said, gently. “Thou 
art thinking of me, not of thyself—as always. But 
two, who are in perfect accord, can fight better than 
one. Together ...” 

“Nay,” he interrupted. 

“Thou art, then, firmly determined not to ask me 
to marry thee ?” 

He did not answer. He could not. 

“I am sorry.” 

Mark turned, dropped into a convenient chair, 
and buried his head upon his mighty arms. The 
smith would have stepped to his side. Although the 



380 MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


others had heard only part of the low-spoken 
words, all of them realized their import. But 
Faith anticipated his action. She took her place, 
almost challengingly, close to Mark, half facing 
them, and her voice rang clearly out, “I am a 
woman, and a Friend, but this—if ever—is the 
time for plain speaking. Thou hast said that thou 
lovest me, Mark Gray. I love thee, and if thou wilt 
not ask me to marry thee—because of the reasons 
which thou hast given—I will marry thee without 
thine asking. And I think that thou canst not well 
refuse to accept me, after what hath happened.” 

Mark raised his head. A great light was 
illuminating his bruised and weary countenance. 
“The love of a true woman is like the love of God, 
and each is as a driven well whose pure waters 
can both cleanse and quench the thirst. . . . 
The more we draw upon it the more it will flow 
forth, an inexhaustible stream.” Again the 
words came to his mind. And how he thirsted! 
With a sound like a great sob Mark stretched out 
his arms and drew Faith to him. 

“The love of God, that passeth understanding, 
be with them now—and evermore,” said John 
Gray, solemnly. 

“Amen.” Friend Dyer Dexter, Daniel Good- 
body and Sister Patience made the response to¬ 
gether, and the word was echoed in yet another 
voice—deep and strangely husky. 

Jeremiah’s eyes, which had almost constantly 



THE LAST CHAPTER 


381 


been fixed on the wrestler with an expression close 
to adoration, now opened wider. “The Bull!” he 
whispered. “Gosh. The Bull said that! Well, 
I’ll be danged.” 


THE END 






MARK GRAY’S HERITAGE 


A Romance 




By Eliot Harlow Robinson 

Author of “Smiles: A Rose of the Cumberlands, 

“Smiling Pass,” “The Maid of Mirabelle,” etc. 

Cloth, i2mo, illustrated, $1.90 

“What is bred in the bone will never come out of 
the flesh.” 

Mr. Robinson’s distinguished success came with the 
acclaim accredited to his novel, SMILES, “The Best- 
Loved Book of the Year,” and its sequel, SMILING 
PASS. With delicate humor and a sincere faith in the 
beautiful side of human nature, Mr. Robinson has 
created for himself a host of enthusiastic admirers. 
In his new book he chooses a theme, suggested perhaps 
by the old proverb quoted above (“Pilpay’s Fables”). 
His setting is a Quaker village, his theme the conflict 
between grave Quaker ideals and the strength and hot 
blood of impulsive Mark Gray. 

Here is a book that is worthy of the reception ac¬ 
corded SMILES by all readers who appreciate a story 
of deep significance, simply yet powerfully built upon 
fundamental passions, wrought with a philosophy that 
always sees the best in troubled times. 

The enthusiastic editor who passed on MARK 
GRAY’S HERITAGE calls it — hardly too emphati¬ 
cally — “A mighty good story with plenty of entertain¬ 
ment for those who like action (there is more of that 
in it than in any other of Mr. Robinson’s novels). The 
reading public will unquestionably call it another ‘cour¬ 
age book’ — which they called the SMILES books, you 
know The language is both strong and smooth. The 
story has a punch!” 





E800MBC8Q0ra8»C8^C8»^aX&82fi8^ 

POLLY THE PAGAN 


Her Lost Love Letters 




By Isabel Anderson 

With an appreciative Foreword by Basil King 
Cloth decorative, i2mo, illustrated , $1.90 


Isabel Anderson, who heretofore has confined her 
literary talents to writing of presidents and diplomats 
and fascinating foreign lands, contributes to our list 
her first novel, POLLY THE PAGAN, a story of 
European life and “high society.” The story is un¬ 
folded in the lively 7- letters of a gay and vivacious Amer¬ 
ican girl traveling in Europe, and tells of the men 
whom she meets in Paris, in London or Rome, her 
flirtations (and they are many and varied!) and excit¬ 
ing experiences. Among the letters written to her are 
slangy ones from an American college boy and some 
in broken English from a fascinated Russian Prince 
(or was he disillusioned, when after dining at a smart 
Parisian cafe with the adorable Polly he was trapped 
by secret police?); but the chief interest, so far as 
Polly’s affaires d’amour are concerned, centers around 
the letters from a young American, in the diplomatic 
service in Rome, who is in a position to give intimate 
descriptions of smart life and Italian society. 

The character drawing is clever, and the suspense as 
to whom the fascinating Polly will marry, if indeed the 
mysterious young lady will marry anybody, is admi¬ 
rably sustained. 













UNCLE MARY 

A Novel for Young or Old 

By Isla May Mullins 

Author of “The Blossom Shop” hooks, “Tweedie,” etc. 

Cloth decorative, i2mo, illustrated, $1.75 

Since the great success of POLLY ANNA there have 
been many efforts to achieve the “GLAD BOOK” style 

T rade Mark 

of fiction, but none so successful as Mrs. Mullins’ 
UNCLE MARY. 

Here is a story, charming in its New England village 
setting, endearing in its characters, engrossing in its 
plot, and diverting in its style. The PAGE imprint 
has been given to many books about beautiful char¬ 
acters in fiction, — Pollyanna, Anne Shirley, Rose Webb 
of “SMILES,” and Lloyd Sherman of the “LITTLE 
COLONEL” books. To this galaxy we now add 
“Uncle” Mary’s protege, Libbie Lee. 

Mrs. Mullins is an author gifted with the ability to 
appeal to the young in heart of whatever age. Her 
characters are visually portrayed. Her situations have 
the interest of naturalness and suspense. The reader 
of UNCLE MARY will become in spirit an inhabitant 
of Sunfield; will understand the enjoyment of the sud¬ 
den acquisition of wealth, a limousine, and — an adopted 
child (!), by the sisters, “Uncle” Mary and “Aunt” 
Alice; will watch with interest the thawing and re¬ 
juvenation of “Uncle” Mary, the cure of Alice, and the 
solving of the mystery of the wealth of sweet little 
Libbie Lee. 















THE RED CAVALIER 

Or, The Twin Turrets Mystery 

By Gladys Edson Locl^e 

Cloth decorative, i2mo, illustrated, $1.90 

Here is a mystery story that is different! The sub¬ 
tlety and strangeness of India—poison and daggers, 
the impassive faces and fierce hearts of Prince Bardai 
and his priestly adviser; a typical English week-end 
house party in the mystery-haunted castle, Twin Tur¬ 
rets, in Yorkshire; a vivid and contrasting background. 

And the plot! Who is the mysterious Red Cavalier? 
Is he the ghost of the ancestral portrait, that hangs in 
Sir Robert Grainger’s strange library? Is he flesh and 
blood, and responsible for the marauding thefts in the 
neighborhood? Is he responsible for Prince KassinTs 
murder? Or is it only coincidence that one of the 
guests at the masked ball happened to wear the costume 
of the Red Cavalier? 

Miss Locke has been able to weave a weird and ab¬ 
sorbing tale of modern detective romance, the strange¬ 
ness of India in modern England. 

There is Lady Berenice Coningsby, a bit declasse; 
Ethelyn Roydon, more so; Princess Lona Bardai, “Little 
Lotus-Blossom,” sweet and pathetic; Mrs. Dalrymple, 
the woman of mystery; Miss Vandelia Egerton, the 
spinster owner of Twin Turrets. There is dashing Max 
Egerton and the impeccable Lord Borrowdean; Captain 
Grenville Coningsby; Prince Kassim Bardai, with the 
impenetrable eyes, and Chand Talsdad, his venerable 
adviser. Which of them is the Red Cavalier? 



Selections from 
The Page Company’s 
List of Fiction 


WORKS OF 

ELEANOR H. PORTER 

POLLY ANNA: The GLAD Book (510,000) 

Trade Mark Trade Mark 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.90 

Mr. Leigh Mitchell Hodges, The Optimist, in an editorial for 
the Philadelphia North American, says: “And when, after 
Pollyanna has gone away, you get her letter saying she is 
going to take ‘ eight steps’ tomorrow — well, I don’t know just 
what you may do, but I know of one person who buried his 
face in his hands and shook with the gladdest sort of sadness 
and got down on his knees and thanked the Giver of all 
gladness for Pollyanna.” 

POLLYANNA: The GLAD Book. Mary Pickford Edition 

Trade Mark Trade Mark 

Illustrated with thirty-two half-tone reproductions of scenes 
from the motion picture production, and a jacket with a por¬ 
trait of Mary Pickford in color. 

doth decorative, 12mo, $2.25 

While preparing “Pollyanna” for the screen, Miss Pickford 
said enthusiastically that it was the best picture she had ever 
made in her life, and the success of the picture on the screen 
has amply justified her statement. Mary Pickford’s interpre¬ 
tation of the beloved little heroine as shown in the illustrations, 
adds immeasurably to the intrinsic charm of this popular story. 

POLLYANNA GROWS UP: The Second GLAD Book 

Trade Mark (253,000) Trade Mark 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.90 

When the story of Pollyanna told in The Glad Book was 
ended, a great cry of regret for the vanishing “ Glad Girl ” 
went up all over the country — and other countries, too. Now 
Pollyanna appears again, just as sweet and joyous-hearted, 
more grown up and more lovable. 

“ Take away frowns ! Put down the worries! Stop fidgeting 
and disagreeing and grumbling! Cheer up, everybody! Polly- 
erNNA has come back!” — Christian Herald. 






2 


THE PAGE COMPANY'S 


WORKS OF ELEANOR H. PORTER (Continued) 

MISS BILLY (93rd thousand) 

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a 
painting by G. Tyng, $1.90 

“ There is something altogether fascinating about ‘ Miss 
Billy,’ some inexplicable feminine characteristic that seems to 
demand the individual attention of the reader from the moment 
we open the book until we reluctantly turn the last page.” — 
Boston Transcript. 

MISS BILLY’S DECISION (78th thousand) 

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a 
painting by Henry W. Moore, $1.90 

“ The story is written in bright, clever style and has plenty 

of action and humor. Miss Billy is nice to know and so are 

her friends.” — New Haven Leader. 

MISS BILLY — MARRIED (86th thousand) 

Cloth decorative, with a frontispiece in full color from a 
painting by W. Haskell Coffin, $1.90 

“ Although Pollyanna is the only copyrighted glad girl, Miss 
Billy is just as glad as the younger figure and radiates just 
as much gladness. She disseminates joy so naturally that we 
wonder why all girls are not like her.” — Boston Transcript. 

SIX STAR RANCH (95th thousand) 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell, 

$1.90 

“ ‘ Six Star Ranch ’ bears all the charm of the author’s genius 
and is about a little girl down in Texas who practices the 
‘ Pollyanna Philosophy ’ with irresistible success. The book is 
one of the kindliest things, if not the best, that the author of 
the Pollyanna books has done. It is a welcome addition to the 
fast-growing family of Glad Books.” — Howard Russell Bangs 
in the Boston Post. 

CROSS CURRENTS 

Cloth decorative, illustrated, $1.50 

“To one who enjoys a story of life as it is to-day, with its 
sorrows as well as its triumphs, this volume is sure to appeal.” 
— Book News Monthly. 

THE TURN OF THE TIDE 

Cloth decorative, illustrated, $1.50 

“ A very beautiful book showing the influence that went to 
the development of the life of a dear little girl into a true and 
good woman.” — Herald and Presbyter, Cincinnati , Ohit*. 



LIST OF FICTION 


3 


NOVELS BY 

ELIOT HARLOW ROBINSON 

Each one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.90 

A book which has established its author in the front rank of 
American novelists. 

SMILES, A ROSE OF THE CUMBERLANDS (29th 
thousand) 

E. J. Anderson, former managing Editor of the Boston 
Advertiser and Record, is enthusiastic over the story and says: 

“ I have read ‘ Smiles 5 in one reading. After starting it I 
could not put it down. Never in my life have I read a book 
like this that thrilled me half as much, and never have I seen 
a more masterful piece of writing.” 

SMILING PASS: A Sequel to « SMILES,” A Rose of 
the Cumberlands 

The thousands who have read and loved Mr. Robinson’s 
earlier story of the little Cumberland mountain girl, whose 
bright courage won for her the affectionate appellation of 
“ Smiles,” will eagerly welcome her return. 

“ Applied sociology, mixed with romance and adventure that 
rise to real dramatic intensity. But the mixture is surpris¬ 
ingly successful. The picture impresses one as being faith¬ 
fully drawn from the living models with sympathetic under¬ 
standing. The book is effective.”— New York Evening Post. 

THE MAID OF MIRABELLE: A Romance of Lorraine 

Illustrated with reproductions of sketches made by the 
author, and with a portrait of “ The Maid of Mirabelle,” 
from a painting by Neale Ordayne, on the cover. 

“The spirit of all the book is the bubbling, the irrepressibly 
indomitable, cheerful faith of the people, at their very best, 
against the grave Quakerism from the United States standing 
out grimly but faithfully. The tale is simply, but strongly 
told.” — Montreal Family Herald and Weekly Star. 

MAN PROPOSES; Or, The Romance of John Alden 
Shaw 

“ This is first of all a charming romance, distinguished by a 
fine sentiment of loyalty to an ideal, by physical courage, in¬ 
domitable resolution to carry to success an altruistic under¬ 
taking, a splendid woman’s devotion, and by a vein of spon¬ 
taneous, sparkling humor that offsets its more serious phases.” 
— Springfield Republican. 



4 


THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


THE ROMANCES OF 

L. M. MONTGOMERY 

Each one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, $1.90 

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES (364th thousand) 

Illustrated by M. A. and W. A. J. Claus. 

“ In ‘ Anne of Green Gables ’ you will find the dearest and 
most moving and delightful child since the immortal Alice.” — 
Mark Twain in a letter to Francis Wilson. 

“ I take it as a great test of the worth of the book that while 
the young people are rummaging all over the house looking for 
Anne, the head of the family has carried her off to read on his 
way to town.” — Bliss Carman. 

ANNE OF AVONLEA (259th thousand) 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. 

“ Here we have a book as human as ‘ David Harum,’ a 
heroine who outcharms a dozen princesses of fiction, and re¬ 
minds you of some sweet girl you know, or knew back in the 
days when the world was young.” — San Francisco Bulletin. 

CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA (45th thousand) 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. 

“ The author shows a wonderful knowledge of humanity, 
great insight and warmheartedness in the manner in which 
some of the scenes are treated, and the sympathetic way the 
gentle peculiarities of the characters are brought out.” — 
Baltimore Sun. 

ANNE OF THE ISLAND (68th thousand) 

Illustrated by H. Weston Taylor. 

“ It has been well worth while to watch the growing up of 
Anne, and the privilege of being on intimate terms with her 
throughout the process has been properly valued. The once 
little girl of Green Gables should have a permanent fictional 
place of high yet tender esteem.” — New York Herald. 

FURTHER CHRONICLES OF AVONLEA (20th thou¬ 
sand). Illustrated by John Goss. 

Nathan Haskell Dole compares Avonlea to Longfellow’s 
Grand Pre — and says, “ There is something in these continued 
chronicles of Avonlea like' the delicate art which has made 
Cranford a classic.” 

“ The reader has dipped into but one or two stories when he 
realizes that the author is the most natural story teller of the 
day.” — Salt Lake City Citizen. 



LIST OF FICTION 


WORKS OF L. M. MONTGOMERY (Continued) 

ANNE OF GREEN GABLES: The Mary Miles Minter 
Edition 

Illustrated with twenty-four half-tone reproductions of 
scenes from the motion picture production, and a jacket in 
colors with Miss Minter’s portrait. 

Cloth decorative, 12mo, $2.25 

“You pass from tears to laughter as the story unfolds, and 
there is never a moment’s hesitation in admitting that Anne 
has completely won your heart.”— Joe Mitchell Chappie, 
Editor, The National Magazine. 

“Mary Miles Minter’s ‘Anne’ on the screen is worthy of 
Mark Twain’s definition of her as the ‘ dearest and most moving 
and delightful child since the immortal “ Alice.” ’ ” — Cam¬ 
bridge Tribune. 

KILMENY OF THE ORCHARD (52d thousand) 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. Cloth decorative, 12mo, $1.90 
“ A purely idyllic love story full of tender sentiment, red¬ 
olent with the perfume of rose leaves and breathing of apple 
blossoms and the sweet clover of twilight meadow-lands.” — 
San Francisco Bulletin. 

“ A story born in the heart of Arcadia and brimful of the 
sweet and simple life of the primitive environment.”— Boston 
Herald. 

THE STORY GIRL (46th thousand) 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. Cloth decorative, 12mo, $1.90 
“ It will be read and, we venture to predict, reread many 
times, for there is a freshness and sweetness about it which will 
help to lift the load of care, to cheer the weary and to make 
brighter still the life of the carefree and the happy.” — 
Toronto, Can., Globe. 

“ ‘ The Story Girl ’ is of decidedly unusual conception and 
interest, and will rival the author’s earlier books in popularity.” 
—. Chicago Western Trade Journal. 

THE GOLDEN ROAD (28th thousand) 

Illustrated by George Gibbs. Cloth decorative, 12mo, $1.90 
In which it is proven that “ Life was a rose-lipped comrade 
with purple flowers dripping from her fingers.” 

“ It is a simple, tender tale, touched to higher notes, now 
and then, by delicate hints of romance, tragedy and pathos. 
Any true-hearted human being might read this book with en¬ 
joyment, no matter what his or her age, social status, or 
economic place.” — Chicago Record-Herald. 




8 


THE PAGE COMPANY’S 


NOVELS BY 

ISLA MAY MULLINS 

Each, one volume, cloth decorative, 12mo, Illustrated, $1.75 
THE BLOSSOM SHOP: A Story of the South 

“ Frankly and wholly romance is this book, and lovable — as 
is a fairy tale properly told.” — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 


ANNE OF THE BLOSSOM SHOP: Or, the Growing 
Up of Anne Carter 

“ A charming portrayal of the attractive life of the South, 
refreshing as a breeze that blows through a pine forest.” — 
Albany Times-Union. 

ANNE’S WEDDING 

“ Presents a picture of home life that is most appealing in 
love and affection.” — Every Evening, Wilmington, Del. 

THE MT. BLOSSOM GIRLS 

“In the writing of the book the author is at her best as a 
3tory teller. It is a fitting climax to the series.” — Reader. 

TWEEDIE: The Story of a True Heart 

“ The story itself is full of charm and one enters right into 
the very life of Tweedie and feels as if he had indeed been 
lifted into an atmosphere of unselfishness, enthusiasm and 
buoyant optimism.” — Boston Ideas. 


NOVELS BY 

DAISY RHODES CAMPBELL 

THE FIDDLING GIRL 

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.65 

“A thoroughly enjoyable tale, written in a delightful vein of 
sympathetic comprehension.” — Boston Herald. 

THE PROVING OF VIRGINIA 

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.65 

“ A book which contributes so much of freshness, enthusiasm, 
and healthy life to offset the usual offerings of modern fiction, 
deserves all the praise which can be showered upon it.” — 
Kindergarten Review. 

THE VIOLIN LADY 

Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.65 

“ The author’s style remains simple and direct, as in her pre¬ 
ceding books.” — Boston Transcript. 





















































































